THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
R.  BENNETT  WEAVER 


Sbepperton  Church. 


SCENES 


CLERICAL  LIFE 


GEORGE    ELIOT 
a  -e. 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1900, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


SSnitcrsttg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


THE    SAD   FORTUNES   OF   THE   REVEREND 
AMOS   BARTON. 


CHAPTER   I. 

SHEPPERTON  Church  was  a  very  different-looking  building 
five  and  twenty  years  ago.  To  be  sure,  its  substantial  stone 
tower  looks  at  you  through  its  intelligent  eye,  the  clock,  with 
the  friendly  expression  of  former  days ;  but  in  everything  else 
what  changes !  Now  there  is  a  wide  span  of  slated  roof  flank- 
ing the  old  steeple;  the  windows  are  tall  and  symmetrical; 
the  outer  doors  are  resplendent  with  oak-graining,  the  inner 
doors  reverentially  noiseless  with  a  garment  of  red  baize ;  and 
the  walls,  you  are  convinced,  no  lichen  will  ever  again  effect 
a  settlement  on — they  are  smooth  and  innutrient  as  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton's  head,  after  ten  years  of  bald- 
ness and  supererogatory  soap.  Pass  through  the  baize  doors 
and  you  will  see  the  nave  filled  with  well-shaped  benches,  un- 
derstood to  be  free  seats ;  while  in  certain  eligible  corners,  less 
directly  under  the  fire  of  the  clergyman's  eye,  there  are  pews 
reserved  for  the  Shepperton  gentility.  Ample  galleries  are 
supported  on  iron  pillars,  and  in  one  of  them  stands  the 
crowning  glory,  the  very  clasp  or  aigrette  of  Shepperton 
church-adornment — namely,  an  organ,  not  very  much  out  of 
repair,  on  which  a  collector  of  small  rents,  differentiated  by 
the  force  of  circumstances  into  an  organist,  will  accompany 
the  alacrity  of  your  departure  after  the  blessing  by  a  sacred 
minuet  or  an  easy  "  Gloria," 


2  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Immense  improvement!  says  the  well-regulated  mind, 
which  uninterinittingly  rejoices  in  the  New  Police,  the  Tithe 
Commutation  Act,  the  penny -post,  and  all  guaranties  of  hu- 
man advancement,  and  has  no  moments  when  conservative- 
reforming  intellect  takes  a  nap,  while  imagination  does  a  little 
Toryism  by  the  sly,  revelling  in  regret  that  dear,  old,  brown, 
crumbling,  picturesque  inefficiency  is  everywhere  giving  place 
to  spick-and-span  new-painted,  new-varnished  efficiency, 
which  will  yield  endless  diagrams,  plans,  elevations,  and  sec- 
tions, but,  alas!  no  picture.  Mine,  I  fear,  is  not  a  well-regu- 
lated mind :  it  has  an  occasional  tenderness  for  old  abuses ;  it 
lingers  with  a  certain  fondness  over  the  days  of  nasal  clerks 
and  top-booted  parsons,  and  has  a  sigh  for  the  departed  shades 
of  vulgar  errors.  So  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  recall  with  a 
fond  sadness  Shepperton  Church  as  it  was  in  the  old  days, 
with  its  outer  coat  of  rough  stucco,  its  red-tiled  roof,  its  hetero- 
geneous windows  patched  with  desultory  bits  of  painted  glass, 
and  its  little  flight  of  steps  with  their  wooden  rail  running  up 
the  outer  wall,  and  leading  to  the  school-children's  gallery. 

Then  inside,  what  dear  old  quaintnesses !  which  I  began  to 
look  at  with  delight,  even  when  I  was  so  crude  a  member  of 
the  congregation,  that  my  nurse  found  it  necessary  to  provide 
for  the  re-enforcement  of  my  devotional  patience  by  smug- 
gling bread-and-butter  into  the  sacred  edifice.  There  was  the 
chancel,  guarded  by  two  little  cherubim  looking  uncomfort- 
ably squeezed  between  arch  and  wall,  and  adorned  with  the 
escutcheons  of  the  Oldinport  family,  which  showed  me  inex- 
haustible possibilities  of  meaning  in  their  blood-red  hands, 
their  death's-heads  and  cross-bones,  their  leopards' -pawsr  and 
Maltese  crosses.  There  were  inscriptions  on  the  panels  of  the 
singing-gallery,  telling  of  benefactions  to  the  poor  of  Shepper- 
ton, with  an  involuted  elegance  of  capitals  and  final  flourishes, 
which  my  alphabetic  erudition  traced  with  ever-new  delight. 
No  benches  in  those  days ;  but  huge  roomy  pews,  round  which 
devout  church-goers  sat  during  "  lessons,"  trying  to  look  any- 
where else  than  into  each  other's  eyes.  No  low  partitions 
allowing  you,  with  a  dreary  absence  of  contrast  and  mystery, 
to  see  everything  at  all  moments;  but  tall  dark  panels,  under 
whose  shadow  I  sank  with  a  sense  of  retirement  through  the 


AMOS  BARTON.  3 

Litany,  only  to  feel  with  more  intensity  my  burst  into  the 
conspicuousness  of  public  life  when  I  was  made  to  stand  up 
on  the  seat  during  the  psalms  or  the  singing. 

And  the  singing  was  no  mechanical  affair  of  official  routine ; 
it  had  a  drama.  As  the  moment  of  psalmody  approached,  by 
some  process  to  me  as  mysterious  and  untraceable  as  the  open- 
ing of  the  flowers  or  the  breaking-out  of  the  stars,  a  slate  ap- 
peared in  front  of  the  gallery,  advertising  in  bold  characters 
the  psalm  about  to  be  sung,  lest  the  sonorous  announcement 
of  the  clerk  should  still  leave  the  bucolic  mind  in  doubt  on 
that  head.  Then  followed  the  migration  of  the  clerk  to  the 
gallery,  where,  in  company  with  a  bassoon,  two  key-bugles, 
a  carpenter  understood  to  have  an  amazing  power  of  singing 
"counter,"  and  two  lesser  musical  stars,  he  formed  the  com- 
plement of  a  choir  regarded  in  Shepperton  as  one  of  distin- 
guished attraction,  occasionally  known  to  draw  hearers  from 
the  next  parish.  The  innovation  of  hymn-books  was  as  yet 
undreamed  of;  even  the  New  Version  was  regarded  with  a 
sort  of  melancholy  tolerance,  as  part  of  the  common  degener- 
acy in  a  time  when  prices  had  dwindled,  and  a  cotton  gown 
was  no  longer  stout  enough  to  last  a  lifetime ;  for  the  lyrical 
taste  of  the  best  heads  in  Shepperton  had  been  formed  on 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins.  But  the  greatest  triumphs  of  the 
Shepperton  choir  were  reserved  for  the  Sundays  when  the  slate 
announced  an  ANTHEM,  with  a  dignified  abstinence  from  par- 
ticularization,  both  words  and  music  lying  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  most  ambitious  amateur  in  the  congregation : — an 
anthem  in  which  the  key-bugles  always  ran  away  at  a  great 
pace,  while  the  bassoon  every  now  and  then  boomed  a  flying 
shot  after  them. 

As  for  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Gilfil,  an  excellent  old  gentle- 
man, who  smoked  very  long  pipes  and  preached  very  short 
sermons,  I  must  not  speak  of  him,  or  I  might  be  tempted  to 
tell  the  story  of  his  life,  which  had  its  little  romance,  as  most 
lives  have  between  the  ages  of  teetotum  and  tobacco.  And  at 
present  I  am  concerned  with  quite  another  sort  of  clergyman 
— the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  who  did  not  come  to  Shepperton 
until  long  after  Mr.  Gilfil  had  departed  this  life — until  after 
an  interval  in  which  Evangelicalism  and  the  Catholic  Ques- 


4  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tion  had  begun  to  agitate  the  rustic  mind  with  controversial 
debates.  A  Popish  blacksmith  had  produced  a  strong  Prot- 
estant reaction  by  declaring  that,  as  soon  as  the  Emancipation 
Bill  was  passed,  he  should  do  a  great  stroke  of  business  in 
gridirons ;  and  the  disinclination  of  the  Shepperton  parishion- 
ers generally  to  dim  the  unique  glory  of  St.  Lawrence,  ren- 
dered the  Church  and  Constitution  an  affair  of  their  business 
and  bosoms.  A  zealous  Evangelical  preacher  had  made  the 
old  sounding-board  vibrate  with  quite  a  different  sort  of  elocu- 
tion from  Mr.  Gilfil's ;  the  hymn-book  had  almost  superseded 
the  Old  and  New  Versions ;  and  the  great  square  pews  were 
crowded  with  new  faces  from  distant  corners  of  the  parish — 
perhaps  from  Dissenting  chapels. 

You  are  not  imagining,  I  hope,  that  Amos  Barton  was  the 
incumbent  of  Shepperton.  He  was  no  such  thing.  Those 
were  days  when  a  man  could  hold  three  small  livings,  starve 
a  curate  apiece  on  two  of  them,  and  live  badly  himself  on  the 
third.  It  was  so  with  the  Vicar  of  Shepperton ;  a  vicar  given 
to  bricks  and  mortar,  and  thereby  running  into  debt  far  away 
in  a  northern  county — who  executed  his  vicarial  functions 
toward  Shepperton  by  pocketing  the  sum  of  thirty-five  pounds 
ten  per  annum,  the  net  surplus  remaining  to  him  from  the 
proceeds  of  that  living,  after  the  disbursement  of  eighty 
pounds  as  the  annual  stipend  of  his  curate.  And  now,  pray, 
can  you  solve  me  the  following  problem?  Given  a  man  with 
a  wife  and  six  children :  let  him  be  obliged  always  to  exhibit 
himself  when  outside  his  own  door  in  a  suit  of  black  broad- 
cloth, such  as  will  not  undermine  the  foundations  of  the  Es- 
tablishment by  a  paltry  plebeian  glossiness  or  an  unseemly 
whiteness  at  the  edges ;  in  a  snowy  cravat,  which  is  a  serious 
investment  of  labor  in  the  hemming,  starching,  and  ironing 
departments;  and  in  a  hat  which  shows  no  symptom  of  taking 
to  the  hideous  doctrine  of  expediency,  and  shaping  itself  ac- 
cording to  circumstances ;  let  him  have  a  parish  large  enough 
to  create  an  external  necessity  for  abundant  shoe-leather,  and 
an  internal  necessity  for  abundant  beef  and  mutton,  as  well 
as  poor  enough  to  require  frequent  priestly  consolation  in  the 
shape  of  shillings  and  sixpences ;  and,  lastly,  let  him  be  com- 
pelled, by  his  own  pride  and  other  people's,  to  dress  his  wife 


AMOS  BARTON.  5 

aud  children  with  gentility  from  bonnet-strings  to  shoe-strings. 
By  what  process  of  division  can  the  sum  of  eighty  pounds  per 
annum  be  made  to  yield  a  quotient  which  will  cover  that  man's 
weekly  expenses?  This  was  the  problem  presented  by  the 
position  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  as  curate  of  Shepperton, 
rather  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 

What  was  thought  of  this  problem,  and  of  the  man  who  had 
to  work  it  out,  by  some  of  the  well-to-do  inhabitants  of  Shep- 
perton, two  years  or  more  after  Mr.  Barton's  arrival  among 
them,  you  shall  hear,  if  you  will  accompany  me  to  Cross 
Farm,  and  to  the  fireside  of  Mrs.  Patten,  a  childless  old  lady, 
who  had  got  rich  chiefly  by  the  negative  process  of  spending 
nothing.  Mrs.  Patten's  passive  accumulation  of  wealth, 
through  all  sorts  of  "  bad  times, "  on  the  farm  of  which  she 
had  been  sole  tenant  since  her  husband's  death,  her  epigram- 
matic neighbor,  Mrs.  Hackit,  sarcastically  accounted  for  by 
supposing  that  "  sixpences  grew  on  the  bents  of  Cross  Farm  " ; 
while  Mr.  Hackit,  expressing  his  views  more  literally,  re- 
minded his  wife  that  "money  breeds  money."  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hackit,  from  the  neighboring  farm,  are  Mrs.  Patten's  guests 
this  evening;  so  is  Mr.  Pilgrim,  the  doctor  from  the  nearest 
market-town,  who,  though  occasionally  affecting  aristocratic 
airs,  and  giving  late  dinners  with  enigmatic  side-dishes  and 
poisonous  port,  is  never  so  comfortable  as  when  he  is  relaxing 
his  professional  legs  in  one  of  those  excellent  farmhouses 
where  the  mice  are  sleek  and  the  mistress  sickly.  And  he 
is  at  this  moment  in  clover. 

For  the  flickering  of  Mrs.  Patten's  bright  fire  is  reflected  in 
her  bright  copper  tea-kettle,  the  home-made  muffins  glisten 
with  an  inviting  succulence,  and  Mrs.  Patten's  niece,  a  single 
lady  of  fifty,  who  has  refused  the  most  ineligible  offers  out  of 
devotion  to  her  aged  aunt,  is  pouring  the  rich  cream  into  the 
fragrant  tea  with  a  discreet  liberality. 

Reader!  did  you  ever  taste  such  a  cup  of  tea  as  Miss  Gibbs 
is  this  moment  handing  to  Mr.  Pilgrim?  Do  you  know  the 
dulcet  strength,  the  animating  blandness  of  tea  sufficiently 
blended  with  real  farmhouse  cream?  No — most  likely  you 
are  a  miserable  town-bred  reader,  who  thinks  of  cream  as  a 
thinuish  white  fluid,  delivered  in  infinitesimal  pennyworths 


6  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

down  area  steps ;  or  perhaps,  from  a  presentiment  of  calves' 
brains,  you  refrain  from  any  lacteal  addition,  and  rasp  your 
tongue  with  unmitigated  bohea.  You  have  a  vague  idea  of 
a  milch  cow  as  probably  a  white  plaster  animal  standing  in  a 
butterrnan's  window,  and  you  know  nothing  of  the  sweet  his- 
tory of  genuine  cream,  such  as  Miss  Gibbs's:  how  it  was  this 
morning  in  the  udders  of  the  large  sleek  beasts,  as  they  stood 
lowing  a  patient  entreaty  under  the  milking-shed ;  how  it  fell 
with  a  pleasant  rhythm  into  Betty's  pail,  sending  a  delicious 
incense  into  the  cool  air;  how  it  was  carried  into  that  temple 
of  moist  cleanliness,  the  dairy,  where  it  quietly  separated  it- 
self from  the  meaner  elements  of  milk,  and  lay  in  mellowed 
whiteness,  ready  for  the  skimming-dish  which  transferred  it 
to  Miss  Gibbs's  glass  cream-jug.  If  I  am  right  in  my  conject- 
ure, you  are  unacquainted  with  the  highest  possibilities  of 
tea;  and  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  is  holding  that  cup  in  his  hand, 
has  an  idea  beyond  you. 

Mrs.  Hackit  declines  cream ;  she  has  so  long  abstained  from 
it  with  an  eye  to  the  weekly  butter-money,  that  abstinence, 
wedded  to  habit,  has  begotten  aversion.  She  is  a  thin  woman 
with  a  chronic  liver-complaint,  which  would  have  secured  her 
Mr.  Pilgrim's  entire  regard  and  unreserved  good  word,  even 
if  he  had  not  been  in  awe  of  her  tongue,  which  was  as  sharp 
as  his  own  lancet.  She  has  brought  her  knitting — no  frivo- 
lous fancy  knitting,  but  a  substantial  woollen  stocking;  the 
click-click  of  her  knitting-needles  is  the  running  accompani- 
ment to  all  her  conversation,  and  in  her  utmost  enjoyment  of 
spoiling  a  friend's  self-satisfaction,  she  was  never  known  to 
spoil  a  stocking. 

Mrs.  Patten  does  not  admire  this  excessive  click-clicking 
activity.  Quiescence  in  an  easy-chair,  under  the  sense  of 
compound  interest  perpetually  accumulating,  has  long  seemed 
an  ample  function  to  her,  and  she  does  her  malevolence 
gently.  She  is  a  pretty  little  old  woman  of  eighty,  with  a 
close  cap  and  tiny  flat  white  curls  round  her  face,  as  natty  and 
unsoiled  and  invariable  as  the  waxen  image  of  a  little  old  lady 
under  a  glass-case;  once  a  lady's-maid,  and  married  for  her 
beauty.  She  used  to  adore  her  husband,  and  now  she  adores 
her  money,  cherishing  a  quiet  blood-relation's  hatred  for  her 


AMOS  BARTON.  7 

niece,  Janet  Gibbs,  who,  she  knows,  expects  a  large  legacy, 
and  whom  she  is  determined  to  disappoint.  Her  money  shall 
all  go  in  a  lump  to  a  distant  relation  of  her  husband's,  and 
Janet  shall  be  saved  the  trouble  of  pretending  to  cry,  by  find- 
ing that  she  is  left  with  a  miserable  pittance. 

Mrs.  Patten  has  more  respect  for  her  neighbor  Mr.  Hackit 
than  for  most  people.  Mr.  Hackit  is  a  shrewd,  substantial 
man,  whose  advice  about  crops  is  always  worth  listening  to, 
and  who  is  too  well  off  to  want  to  borrow  money. 

And  now  that  we  are  snug  and  warm  with  this  little  tea- 
party,  while  it  is  freezing  with  February  bitterness  outside, 
we  will  listen  to  what  they  are  talking  about. 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  with  his  mouth  only  half  empty  of 
muffin,  "  you  had  a  row  in  Shepperton  Church  last  Sunday.  I 
was  at  Jem  Hood's,  the  bassoon-man's,  this  morning,  attend- 
ing his  wife,  and  he  swears  he'll  be  revenged  on  the  parson — 
a  confounded,  rnethodistical,  meddlesome  chap,  who  must  be 
putting  his  finger  in  every  pie.  What  was  it  all  about?  " 

"  Oh,  a  passill  o'  nonsense, "  said  Mr.  Hackit,  sticking  one 
thumb  between  the  buttons  of  his  capacious  waistcoat  and 
retaining  a  pinch  of  snuff  with  the  other — for  he  was  but  mod- 
erately given  to  ''the  cups  that  cheer  but  not  inebriate,"  and 
had  already  finished  his  tea ;  "  they  began  to  sing  the  wedding 
psalm  for  a  new-married  couple,  as  pretty  a  psalm  an'  as  pretty 
a  tune  as  any  in  the  prayer-book.  It's  been  sung  for  every 
new-married  couple  since  I  was  a  boy.  And  what  can  be  bet- 
ter?" Here  Mr.  Hackit  stretched  out  his  left  arm,  threw 
back  his  head,  and  broke  into  melody : 

" '  Oh,  what  a  happy  thing  it  is, 

And  joyful  for  to  see, 
Brethren  to  dwell  together  in 
Friendship  and  unity. ' 

TUit  Mr.  Barton  is  all  for  the  hymns,  and  a  sort  o'  music  as  I 
can't  join  in  at  all." 

"And  so,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  recalling  Mr.  Hackit  from 
lyrical  reminiscences  to  narrative,  "he  called  out  Silence!  did 
he?  when  he  got  into  the  pulpit;  and  gave  a  hymn  out  him- 
self to  some  meeting-house  tune?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.   Hackit,   stooping  toward  the  candle  to 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

pick  up  a  stitch,  "  and  turned  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  I  often 
say,  when  he  preaches  about  meekness,  he  gives  himself  a 
slap  in  the  face.  He's  like  me — he's  got  a  temper  of  his 
own." 

"  Kather  a  low-bred  fellow,  I  think,  Barton, "  said  Mr.  Pil- 
grim, who  hated  the  Rev.  Amos  for  two  reasons — because  he 
had  called  in  a  new  doctor,  recently  settled  in  Shepperton; 
and  because,  being  himself  a  dabbler  in  drugs,  he  had  the 
credit  of  having  cured  a  patient  of  Mr.  Pilgrim's.  "  They 
say  his  father  was  a  Dissenting  shoemaker;  and  he's  half  a 
Dissenter  himself.  Why,  doesn't  he  preach  extempore  in 
that  cottage  up  here,  of  a  Sunday  evening?  " 

"Tchuh!" — this  was  Mr.  Hackit's  favorite  interjection — 
"  that  preaching  without  book' s  no  good,  only  when  a  man 
has  a  gift,  and  has  the  Bible  at  his  ringers'  ends.  It  was  all 
very  well  for  Parry — he'd  a  gift;  and  in  my  youth  I've  heard 
the  Banters  out  o'  doors  in  Yorkshire  go  on  for  an  hour  or 
two  on  end,  without  ever  sticking  fast  a  minute.  There  was 
one  clever  chap,  I  remember,  as  used  to  say :  '  You're  like  the 
wood-pigeon ;  it  says  do,  do,  do  all  day,  and  never  sets  about 
any  work  itself.'  That's  bringing  it  home  to  people.  But 
our  parson's  no  gift  at  all  that  way;  he  can  preach  as  good  a 
sermon  as  need  be  heard  when  he  writes  it  down.  But  when 
he  tries  to  preach  wi'out  book,  he  rambles  about,  and  doesn't 
stick  to  his  text ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  flounders  about 
like  a  sheep  as  has  cast  itself,  and  can't  get  on  its  legs  again. 
You  wouldn't  like  that,  Mrs.  Patten,  if  you  was  to  go  to 
church  now?  " 

"Eh,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Patten,  falling  back  in  her  chair, 
and  lifting  up  her  little  withered  hands,  "  what  'ud  Mr.  Gilfil 
say,  if  he  was  worthy  to  know  the  changes  as  have  come  about 
i'  the  church  these  last  ten  years?  I  don't  understand  these 
new  sort  o'  doctrines.  When  Mr.  Barton  comes  to  see  me,  he 
talks  about  nothing  but  my  sins  and  my  need  o'  marcy.  Now, 
Mr.  Hackit,  I've  never  been  a  sinner.  From,  the  fust  begin- 
ning, when  I  went  into  service,  I  al'ys  did  my  diity  by  my 
emplyers.  I  was  a  good  wife  as  any  in  the  county — never 
aggravated  my  husband.  The  cheese-factor  used  to  say  my 
cheese  was  al'ys  to  be  depended  on.  I've  known  women,  as 


AMOS  BARTON.  9 

their  cheeses  swelled  a  shame  to  be  seen,  when  their  husbands 
had  counted  on  the  cheese-money  to  make  up  their  rent;  and 
yet  they'd  three  gowns  to  my  one.  If  I'm  not  to  be  saved, 
I  know  a  many  as  are  in  a  bad  way.  But  it's  well  for  me  as 
I  can't  go  to  church  any  longer,  for  if  th'  old  singers  are  to 
be  done  away  with,  there'll  be  nothing  left  as  it  was  in  Mr. 
Patten's  time;  and  what's  more,  I  hear  you've  settled  to  pull 
the  church  down  and  build  it  up  new?  " 

Now  the  fact  was  that  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  on  his  last 
visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  had  urged  her  to  enlarge  her  promised 
subscription  of  twenty  pounds,  representing  to  her  that  she 
was  only  a  steward  of  her  riches,  and  that  she  could  not  spend 
them  more  for  the  glory  of  God  than  by  giving  a  heavy  sub- 
scription toward  the  rebuilding  of  Shepperton  Church — a 
practical  precept  which  was  not  likely  to  smooth  the  way  to 
her  acceptance  of  his  theological  doctrine.  Mr.  Hackit,  who 
had  more  doctrinal  enlightenment  than  Mrs.  Patten,  had  been 
a  little  shocked  by  the  heathenism  of  her  speech,  and  was  glad 
of  the  new  turn  given  to  the  subject  by  this  question,  ad- 
dressed to  him  as  church-warden  and  an  authority  in  all 
parochial  matters. 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "the  parson's  bothered  us  into  it  at 
last,  and  we're  to  begin  pulling  down  this  spring.  But  we 
haven't  got  money  enough  yet.  I  was  for  waiting  till  we'd 
made  up  the  sum,  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  the  congregation's 
fell  off  o'  late;  though  Mr.  Barton  says  that's  because  there's 
been  no  room  for  the  people  when  they've  come.  You  see, 
the  congregation  got  so  large  in  Parry's  time,  the  people  stood 
in  the  aisles;  but  there's  never  any  crowd  now,  as  I  can 
see." 

"  Well, "  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  whose  good  nature  began  to  act 
now  that  it  was  a  little  in  contradiction  with  the  dominant 
tone  of  the  conversation,  "/  like  Mr.  Barton.  I  think  he's 
a  good  sort  o'  man,  for  all  he's  not  overburthen'd  i'  th'  upper 
storey;  and  his  wife's  as  nice  a  lady-like  woman  as  I'd  wish 
to  see.  How  nice  she  keeps  her  children !  and  little  enough 
money  to  do't  with;  and  a  delicate  creatur' — six  children,  and 
another  a-coming.  I  don't  know  how  they  make  both  ends 
meet,  I'm  sure,  now  her  aunt  has  left  'em.  But  I  sent  'em 


10  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

a  cheese  and  a  sack  o'  potatoes  last  week ;  that' s  something 
toward  filling  the  little  mouths." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Hackit,  "  and  my  wife  makes  Mr.  Barton 
a  good  stiff  glass  o'  brandy-and-water,  when  he  comes  in  to 
supper  after  his  cottage  preaching.  The  parson  likes  it;  it 
puts  a  bit  o'  color  into  his  face,  and  makes  him  look  a  deal 
handsomer." 

This  allusion  to  brandy-and-water  suggested  to  Miss  Gibbs 
the  introduction  of  the  liquor  decanters,  now  that  the  tea  was 
cleared  away ;  for  in  bucolic  society  five  and  twenty  years  ago, 
the  human  animal  of  the  male  sex  was  understood  to  be  per- 
petually athirst,  and  "  something  to  drink  "  was  as  necessary 
a  "  condition  of  thought "  as  Time  and  Space. 

"Now,  that  cottage  preaching,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  mixing 
himself  a  strong  glass  of  '  cold  without, '  "  I  was  talking  about 
it  to  our  Parson  Ely  the  other  day,  and  he  doesn't  approve  of 
it  at  all.  He  said  it  did  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a  too 
familiar  aspect  to  religious  teaching.  That  was  what  Ely  said 
— it  does  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a  too  familiar  aspect 
to  religious  teaching." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  generally  spoke  with  an  intermittent  kind  of 
splutter ;  indeed,  one  of  his  patients  had  observed  that  it  was 
a  pity  such  a  clever  man  had  a  "  'pediment"  in  his  speech. 
But  when  he  came  to  what  he  conceived  the  pith  of  his  argu- 
ment or  the  point  of  his  joke,  he  mouthed  out  his  words  with 
slow  emphasis ;  as  a  hen,  when  advertising  her  accouchement, 
passes  at  irregular  intervals  from,  pianissimo  semiquavers  to 
fortissimo  crotchets.  He  thought  this  speech  of  Mr.  Ely's 
particularly  metaphysical  and  profound,  and  the  more  decisive 
of  the  question  because  it  was  a  generality  which  represented 
no  particulars  to  his  mind. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  who 
had  always  the  courage  of  her  opinion,  "  but  I  know,  some  of 
our  laborers  and  stock ingers  as  used  never  to  come  to  church, 
come  to  the  cottage,  and  that's  better  than  never  hearing  any- 
thing good  from  week's  end  to  week's  end.  And  there's  that 
Track  Society  as  Mr.  Barton  has  begun— I've  seen  mo^e  o'  the 
poor  people  with  going  tracking,  than  all  the  time  I've  lived 
in  the  parish  before.  And  there'd  need  be  something  done 


AMOS  BARTON.  11 

among  'em ;  for  the  driuking  at  them  Benefit  Clubs  is  shame- 
ful. There's  hardly  a  steady  man,  or  steady  woman  either, 
but  what's  a  Dissenter." 

During  this  speech  of  Mrs.  Hackit's,  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  emit- 
ted a  succession  of  little  snorts,  something  like  the  treble 
grunts  of  a  guinea-pig,  which  were  always  with  him  the  sign 
of  suppressed  disapproval.  But  he  never  contradicted  Mrs. 
Hackit — a  woman  whose  "  pot-luck  "  was  always  to  be  relied 
on,  and  who  on  her  side  had  unlimited  reliance  on  bleeding, 
blistering,  and  draughts. 

Mrs.  Patten,  however,  felt  equal  disapprobation,  and  had 
no  reasons  for  suppressing  it. 

"  Well,"  she  remarked,  "I've  beared  of  no  good  from  in- 
terfering with  one's  neighbors,  poor  or  rich.  And  I  hate  the 
sight  o'  women  going  about  trapesing  from  house  to  house  in 
all  weathers,  wet  or  dry,  and  coming  in  with  their  petticoats 
dagged  and  their  shoes  all  over  mud.  Janet  wanted  to  join 
in  the  tracking,  but  I  told  her  I'd  have  nobody  tracking  out 
o'  my  house;  when  I'm  gone,  she  may  do  as  she  likes.  I 
never  dagged  my  petticoats  in  my  life,  and  I've  no  opinion 
o'  that  sort  o'  religion." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Hackit,  who  was  fond  of  soothing  the  acer- 
bities of  the  feminine  mind  with  a  jocose  compliment,  "  you 
held  your  petticoats  so  high,  to  show  your  tight  ankles:  it 
isn't  everybody  as  likes  to  show  her  ankles." 

This  joke  met  with  general  acceptance,  even  from  the 
snubbed  Janet,  whose  ankles  were  only  tight  in  the  sense  of 
looking  extremely  squeezed  by  her  boots.  But  Janet  seemed 
always  to  identify  herself  with  her  aunt's  personality,  holding 
her  own  under  protest. 

Under  cover  of  the  general  laughter  the  gentlemen  replen- 
ished their  glasses,  Mr.  Pilgrim  attempting  to  give  his  the 
character  of  a  stirrup-cup  by  observing  that  he  "  must  be 
going."  Miss  Gibbs  seized  this  opportunity  of  telling  Mrs. 
Hackit  that  she  suspected  Betty,  the  dairymaid,  of  frying  the 
best  bacon  for  the  shepherd,  when  he  sat  up  with  her  to  "  help 
brew  " ;  whereupon  Mrs.  Hackit  replied  that  she  had  always 
thought  Betty  false;  and  Mrs.  Patten  said  there  was  no  bacon 
stolen  when  she  was  able  to  manage.  Mr.  Hackit,  who  often 


12  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

complained  that  he  "  never  saw  the  like  to  women  with  their 
maids — he  never  had  any  trouble  with  his  men,"  avoided  lis- 
tening to  this  discussion,  by  raising  the  question  of  vetches 
with  Mr.  Pilgrim.  The  stream  of  conversation  had  thus  di- 
verged ;  and  no  more  was  said  about  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton, 
who  is  the  main  object  of  interest  to  us  just  now.  So  we  may 
leave  Cross  Farm  without  waiting  till  Mrs.  Hackit,  resolutely 
donning  her  clogs  and  wrappings,  renders  it  incumbent  on 
Mr.  Pilgrim  also  to  fulfil  his  frequent  threat  of  going. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  happy  for  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  that  he  did  not, 
like  us,  overhear  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chapter. 
Indeed,  what  mortal  is  there  of  us,  who  would  find  his  satis- 
faction enhanced  by  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  picture 
he  presents  to  himself  of  his  own  doings,  with  the  picture 
they  make  on  the  mental  retina  of  his  neighbors?  We  are 
poor  plants  buoyed  up  by  the  air-vessels  of  our  own  conceit : 
alas  for  us,  if  we  get  a  few  pinches  that  empty  us  of  that 
windy  self -subsistence!  The  very  capacity  for  good  would  go 
out  of  us.  For,  tell  the  most  impassioned  orator,  suddenly, 
that  his  wig  is  awry,  or  his  shirt-lap  hanging  out,  and  that  he 
is  tickling  people  by  the  oddity  of  his  person,  instead  of  thrill- 
ing them  by  the  energy  of  his  periods,  and  you  would  infal- 
libly dry  up  the  spring  of  his  eloquence.  That  is  a  deep  and 
wide  saying,  that  no  miracle  can  be  wrought  without  faith — 
without  the  worker's  faith  in  himself,  as  well  as  the  recipi- 
ent's faith  in  him.  And  the  greater  part  of  the  worker's 
faith  in  himself  is  made  up  of  the  faith  that  others  believe 
in  him. 

Let  me  be  persuaded  that  my  neighbor  Jenkins  considers 
me  a  blockhead,  and  I  shall  never  shine  in  conversation  with 
him  any  more.  Let  me  discover  that  the  lovely  Phoebe  thinks 
my  squint  intolerable,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  fix  her 
blandly  with  my  disengaged  eye  again. 

Thank  heaven,  then,  that  a  little  illusion  is  left  to  us,  to 


AMOS  BARTON.  13 

enable  us  to  be  useful  and  agreeable — that  we  don't  know  ex- 
actly what  our  friends  think  of  us — that  the  world  is  not  made 
of  looking-glass,  to  show  us  just  the  figure  we  are  making,  and 
just  what  is  going  on  behind  our  backs !  By  the  help  of  dear 
friendly  illusion,  we  are  able  to  dream  that  we  are  charming — 
and  our  faces  wear  a  becoming  air  of  self-possession ;  we  are 
able  to  dream  that  other  men  admire  our  talents — and  our  be- 
nignity is  undisturbed ;  we  are  able  to  dream  that  we  are  doing 
much  good — and  we  do  a  little. 

Thus  it  was  with  Amos  Barton  on  that  very  Thursday  even- 
ing when  he  was  the  subject  of  the  conversation  at  Cross 
Farm.  He  had  been  dining  at  Mr.  Farquhar's,  the  secondary 
squire  of  the  parish,  and,  stimulated  by  unwonted  gravies 
and  port-wine,  had  been  delivering  his  opinion  on  affairs  paro- 
chial and  extra-parochial  with  considerable  animation.  And 
he  was  now  returning  home  in  the  moonlight — a  little  chill, 
it  is  true,  for  he  had  just  now  no  greatcoat  compatible  with 
clerical  dignity,  and  a  fur  boa  round  one's  neck,  with  a  wa- 
terproof cape  over  one's  shoulders,  doesn't  frighten  away  the 
cold  from  one's  legs;  but  entirely  unsuspicious,  not  only  of 
Mr.  Hackit's  estimate  of  his  oratorical  powers,  but  also  of  the 
critical  remarks  passed  on  him  by  the  Misses  Farquhar  as 
soon  as  the  drawing-room  door  had  closed  behind  him.  Miss 
Julia  had  observed  that  she  never  heard  any  one  sniff  so 
frightfully  as  Mr.  Barton  did — she  had  a  great  mind  to  offer 
him  her  pocket-handkerchief ;  and  Miss  Arabella  wondered  why 
he  always  said  he  was  going  for  to  do  a  thing.  He,  excellent 
man !  was  meditating  fresh  pastoral  exertions  on  the  morrow ; 
he  would  set  on  foot  his  lending  library ;  in  which  he  had  in- 
troduced some  books  that  would  be  a  pretty  sharp  blow  to 
the  Dissenters — one  especially,  purporting  to  be  written  by  a 
working  man,  who,  out  of  pure  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  his 
class,  took  the  trouble  to  warn  them  in  this  way  against  those 
hypocritical  thieves,  the  Dissenting  preachers.  The  Rev. 
Amos  Barton  profoundly  believed  in  the  existence  of  that 
working  man,  and  had  thoughts  of  writing  to  him.  Dissent, 
he  considered,  would  have  its  head  bruised  in  Shepperton,  for 
did  he  not  attack  it  in  two  ways?  He  preached  Low-Church 
doctrine — as  evangelical  as  anything  to  be  heard  in  the  Inde- 


14  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

pendent  Chapel;  and  he  made  a  High-Church  assertion  of 
ecclesiastical  powers  and  functions.  Clearly,  the  Dissenters 
would  feel  that  "  the  parson  "  was  too  many  for  them.  Noth- 
ing like  a  man  who  combines  shrewdness  with  energy.  The 
wisdom  of  the  serpent,  Mr.  Barton  considered,  was  one  of  his 
strong  points. 

Look  at  him  as  he  winds  through  the  little  churchyard! 
The  silver  light  that  falls  aslant  on  church  and  tomb  enables 
you  to  see  his  slim  black  figure,  made  all  the  slimmer  by 
tight  pantaloons,  as  it  flits  past  the  pale  gravestones.  He 
walks  with  a  quick  step,  and  is  now  rapping  with  sharp  de- 
cision at  the  vicarage  door.  It  is  opened  without  delay  by 
the  nurse,  cook,  and  housemaid,  all  at  once — that  is  to  say, 
by  the  robust  maid-of-all-work,  Nanny;  and  as  Mr.  Barton 
hangs  up  his  hat  in  the  passage,  you  see  that  a  narrow  face 
of  no  particular  complexion — even  the  sinall-pox  that  has  at- 
tacked it  seems  to  have  been  of  a  mongrel,  indefinite  kind — 
with  features  of  no  particular  shape,  and  an  eye  of  no  partic- 
ular expression,  is  surmounted  by  a  slope  of  baldness  gently 
rising  from  brow  to  crown.  You  judge  him,  rightly,  to  be 
about  forty.  The  house  is  quiet,  for  it  is  half -past  ten,  and 
the  children  have  long  been  gone  to  bed.  He  opens  the  sit- 
ting-room door,  but  instead  of  seeing  his  wife,  as  he  expected, 
stitching  with  the  nimblest  of  lingers  by  the  light  of  one  can- 
dle, he  finds  her  dispensing  with  the  light  of  a  candle  alto- 
gether. She  is  softly  pacing  up  and  down  by  the  red  firelight, 
holding  in  her  arms  little  Walter,  the  year-old  baby,  who 
looks  over  her  shoulder  with  large  wide-open  eyes,  while  the 
patient  mother  pats  his  back  with  her  soft  hand,  and  glances 
with  a  sigh  at  the  heap  of  large  and  small  stockings  lying  un- 
mended  on  the  table. 

She  was  a  lovely  woman — Mrs.  Amos  Barton ;  a  large,  fair, 
gentle  Madonna,  with  thick,  close,  chestnut  curls  beside  her 
well-rounded  cheeks,  arid  with  large,  tender,  short-sighted 
eyes.  The  flowing  lines  of  her  tall  figure  made  the  limpest 
dress  look  graceful,  and  her  old  frayed  black  silk  seemed  to 
repose  on  her  bust  and  limbs  Avith  a  placid  elegance  and  sense 
of  distinction,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  uneasy  sense  of 
being  no  fit,  that  seemed  to  express  itself  in  the  rustling  of 


AMOS  BARTON.  15 

Mrs.  Farquhar's  gros  de  Naples.  The  caps  she  wore  would 
have  been  pronounced,  when  off  her  head,  utterly  heavy  and 
hideous — for  in  those  days  even  fashionable  caps  were  large 
and  floppy ;  but  surrounding  her  long  arched  neck,  and  min- 
gling their  borders  of  cheap  lace  and  ribbon  with  her  chestnut 
curls,  they  seemed  miracles  of  successful  millinery.  Among 
strangers  she  was  shy  and  tremulous  as  a  girl  of  fifteen ;  she 
blushed  crimson  if  any  one  appealed  to  her  opinion ;  yet  that 
tall,  graceful,  substantial  presence  was  so  imposing  in  its 
mildness,  that  men  spoke  to  her  with  an  agreeable  sensation 
of  timidity. 

Soothing,  unspeakable  charm  of  gentle  womanhood!  which 
supersedes  all  acquisitions,  all  accomplishments.  You  would 
never  have  asked,  at  any  period  of  Mrs.  Amos  Barton's  life, 
if  she  sketched  or  played  the  piano.  You  would  even  perhaps 
have  been  rather  scandalized  if  she  had  descended  from  the 
serene  dignity  of  being  to  the  assiduous  unrest  of  doing. 
Happy  the  man,  you  would  have  thought,  whose  eye  will  rest 
on  her  in  the  pauses  of  his  fireside  reading — whose  hot  aching 
forehead  will  be  soothed  by  the  contact  of  her  cool  soft  hand — 
who  will  recover  himself  from  dejection  at  his  mistakes  and 
failures  in  the  loving  light  of  her  unreproaching  eyes !  You 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  anticipated  that  this  bliss  would  fall 
to  the  share  of  precisely  such  a  man  as  Amos  Barton,  whom 
you  have  already  surmised  not  to  have  the  refined  sensibilities 
for  which  you  might  have  imagined  Mrs.  Barton's  qualities  to 
be  destined  by  pre-established  harmony.  But  I,  for  one,  do 
not  grudge  Amos  Barton  this  sweet  wife.  I  have  all  my  life 
had  a  sympathy  for  mongrel  ungainly  dogs,  who  are  nobody's 
pets ;  and  I  would  rather  surprise  one  of  them  by  a  pat  and  a 
pleasant  morsel,  than  meet  the  condescending  advances  of  the 
loveliest  Sky e-terrier  who  has  his  cushion  by  my  lady' s  chair. 
That,  to  be  sure,  is  not  the  way  of  the  world :  if  it  happens 
to  see  a  fellow  of  fine  proportions  and  aristocratic  mien,  who 
makes  nofauxjias,  and  wins  golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of 
men,  it  straightway  picks  out  for  him  the  loveliest  of  unmar- 
ried women,  and  says,  There  would  be  a  proper  match!  Not 
at  all,  say  I :  let  that  successful,  well-shapen,  discreet,  and 
able  gentleman  put  up  with  something  less  than  the  best  in 


16  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

the  matrimonial  department ;  and  let  the  sweet  woman  go  to 
make  sunshine  and  a  soft  pillow  for  the  poor  devil  whose  legs 
are  not  models,  whose  efforts  are  often  blunders,  and  who  in 
general  gets  more  kicks  than  halfpence.  She — the  sweet  wom- 
an— will  like  it  as  well;  for  her  sublime  capacity  of  loving 
will  have  all  the  more  scope ;  and  I  venture  to  say,  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton's nature  would  never  have  grown  half  so  angelic  if  she 
had  married  the  man  you  would  perhaps  have  had  in  your  eye 
for  her — a  man  with  sufficient  income  and  abundant  personal 
eclat.  Besides,  Amos  was  an  affectionate  husband,  and,  in 
his  way,  valued  his  wife  as  his  best  treasure. 

But  now  he  has  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  said :  "  Well, 
Milly!" 

"  Well,  dear !  "  was  the  corresponding  greeting,  made  elo- 
quent by  a  smile. 

"  So  that  young  rascal  won't  go  to  sleep !  Can't  you  give 
him  to  Nanny?" 

"Why,  Nanny  has  been  busy  ironing  this  evening;  but 
I  think  I'll  take  him  to  her  now."  And  Mrs.  Barton  glided 
toward  the  kitchen,  while  her  husband  ran  upstairs  to  put 
on  his  maize-colored  dressing-gown,  in  which  costume  he  was 
quietly  filling  his  long  pipe  when  his  wife  returned  to  the 
sitting-room.  Maize  is  a  color  that  decidedly  did  not  suit 
his  complexion,  and  it  is  one  that  soon  soils;  why,  then,  did 
Mr.  Barton  select  it  for  domestic  wear?  Perhaps  because  he 
had  a  knack  of  hitting  on  the  wrong  thing  in  garb  as  well  as 
in  grammar. 

Mrs.  Barton  now  lighted  her  candle,  and  seated  herself 
before  her  heap  of  stockings.  She  had  something  disagree- 
able to  tell  her  husband,  but  she  would  not  enter  on  it  at 
once. 

"  Have  you  had  a  nice  evening,  dear?  " 

"Yes,  pretty  well.  Ely  was  there  to  dinner,  but  went 
away  rather  early.  Miss  Arabella  is  setting  her  cap  at  him 
with  a  vengeance.  But  I  don't  think  he's  much  smitten.  I've 
a  notion  Ely's  engaged  to  some  one  at  a  distance,  and  will 
astonish  all  the  ladies  who  are  languishing  for  him  here,  by 
bringing  home  his  bride  one  of  these  days.  Ely's  a  sly  dog; 
he'll  like  that." 


AMOS  BARTON.  17 

"  Did  the  Farquhars  say  anything  about  the  singing  last 
Sunday?" 

"  Yes ;  Farquhar  said  he  thought  it  was  time  there  was 
some  improvement  in  the  choir.  But  he  was  rather  scandal- 
ized at  my  setting  the  tune  of  '  Lydia.'  He  says  he's  always 
hearing  it  as  he  passes  the  Independent  meeting."  Here  Mr. 
Barton  laughed — he  had  a  way  of  laughing  at  criticisms  that 
other  people  thought  damaging — and  thereby  showed  the  re- 
mainder of  a  set  of  teeth  which,  like  the  remnants  of  the  Old 
Guard,  were  few  in  number,  and  very  much  the  worse  for 
wear.  "  But, "  he  continued,  "  Mrs.  Farquhar  talked  the 
most  about  Mr.  Bridmain  and  the  Countess.  She  has  taken 
up  all  the  gossip  about  them,  and  wanted  to  convert  me  to  her 
opinion,  but  I  told  her  pretty  strongly  what  I  thought." 

"  Dear  me!  why  will  people  take  so  much  pains  to  find  out 
evil  about  others?  I  have  had  a  note  from  the  Countess  since 
you  went,  asking  us  to  dine  with  them  on  Friday." 

Here  Mrs.  Barton  reached  the  note  from  the  mantelpiece, 
and  gave  it  to  her  husband.  We  will  look  over  his  shoulder 
while  he  reads  it : 

SWEETEST  MILLV  : — Bring  your  lovely  face  with  your  husband  to  dine 
with  us  on  Friday  at  seven — do.  If  not,  I  will  be  sulky  with  you  till 
Sunday,  when  I  shall  be  obliged  to  see  you,  and  shall  long  to  kiss  you 
that  very  moment.  Yours,  according  to  your  answer, 

CAROLINE  CZERLASKT. 

"Just  like  her,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Barton.  "I  suppose 
we  can  go?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  no  engagement.  The  Clerical  Meeting  is  to- 
morrow, you  know." 

"  And,  dear,  Woods  the  butcher  called,  to  say  he  must  have 
some  money  next  week.  He  has  a  payment  to  make  up." 

This  announcement  made  Mr.  Barton  thoughtful.  He 
puffed  more  rapidly,  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  I  think  I  must  ask  Hackit  to  lend  me  twenty  pounds,  for 
it  is  nearly  two  months  till  Lady-day,  and  we  can't  give 
Woods  our  last  shilling." 

"  I  hardly  like  you  to  ask  Mr.  Hackit,  dear — he  and  Mrs. 
Hackit  have  been  so  very  kind  to  us ;  they  have  sent  us  so 
many  things  lately." 


18  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Then  I  must  ask  Oldinport.  I'm  going  to  write  to  him 
to-morrow  morning,  for  to  tell  him  the  arrangement  I've  been 
thinking  of  about  having  service  in  the  workhouse  while  the 
church  is  being  enlarged.  If  he  agrees  to  attend  service  there 
once  or  twice,  the  other  people  will  come.  Net  the  large  fish, 
and  you're  sure  to  have  the  small  fry." 

"  I  wish  we  could  do  without  borrowing  money,  and  yet  I 
don't  see  how  we  can.  Poor  Fred  must  have  some  new  shoes ; 
I  couldn't  let  him  go  to  Mrs.  Bond's  yesterday  because  his 
toes  were  peeping  out,  dear  child!  and  I  can't  let  him  walk 
anywhere  except  in  the  garden.  He  must  have  a  pair  before 
Sunday.  Eeally,  boots  and  shoes  are  the  greatest  trouble  of 
my  life.  Everything  else  one  can  turn  and  turn  about,  and 
make  old  look  like  new;  but  there's  no  coaxing  boots  and 
shoes  to  look  better  than  they  are. " 

Mrs.  Barton  was  playfully  undervaluing  her  skill  in  meta- 
morphosing boots  and  shoes.  She  had  at  that  moment  on  her 
feet  a  pair  of  slippers  which  had  long  ago  lived  through  the 
prunella  phase  of  their  existence,  and  were  now  running  a 
respectable  career  as  black  silk  slippers,  having  been  neatly 
covered  with  that  material  by  Mrs.  Barton's  own  neat  fingers. 
Wonderful  fingers  those !  they  were  never  empty ;  for  if  she 
went  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  a  friendly  parishioner,  out 
came  her  thimble  and  a  piece  of  calico  or  muslin,  which  before 
she  left  had  become  a  mysterious  little  garment  with  all 
sorts  of  hemmed  ins  and  outs.  She  was  even  trying  to  per- 
suade her  husband  to  leave  off  tight  pantaloons,  because  if  he 
would  wear  the  ordinary  gun-cases  she  knew  she  could  make 
them  so  well  that  no  one  would  suspect  the  sex  of  the  tailor. 

But  by  this  time  Mr.  Barton  has  finished  his  pipe,  the 
candle  begins  to  burn  low,  and  Mrs.  Barton  goes  to  see  if 
Nanny  has  succeeded  in  lulling  Walter  to  sleep.  Nanny  is 
that  moment  putting  him  in  the  little  cot  by  his  mother's 
bedside ;  the  head,  with  its  thin  wavelets  of  brown  hair,  in- 
dents the  little  pillow ;  and  a  tiny,  waxen,  dimpled  fist  hides 
the  rosy  lips,  for  baby  is  given  to  the  infantine  peccadillo  of 
thumb-sucking. 

So  Nanny  could  now  join  in  the  short  evening  prayer,  and 
all  could  go  to  bed. 


AMOS  BARTON.  19 

Mrs.  Barton  carried  upstairs  the  remainder  of  her  heap  of 
stockings,  aud  laid  them  on  a  table  close  to  her  bedside,  where 
also  she  placed  a  warm  shawl,  removing  her  candle,  before 
she  put  it  out,  to  a  tin  socket  fixed  at  the  head  of  her  bed. 
Her  body  was  very  weary,  but  her  heart  was  not  heavy,  in 
spite  of  Mr.  Woods  the  butcher,  and  the  transitory  nature  of 
shoe-leather;  for  her  heart  so  overflowed  with  love,  she  felt 
sure  she  was  near  a  fountain  of  love  that  would  care  for  hus- 
band and  babes  better  than  she  could  foresee ;  so  she  was  soon 
asleep.  But  about  half -past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if 
there  were  any  angels  watching  round  her  bed — and  angels 
might  be  glad  of  such  an  office — they  saw  Mrs.  Barton  rise  up 
quietly,  careful  not  to  disturb  the  slumbering  Amos,  who  was 
snoring  the  snore  of  the  just,  light  her  candle,  prop  herself 
upright  with  the  pillows,  throw  the  warm  shawl  round  her 
shoulders,  and  renew  her  attack  on  the  heap  of  undarned 
stockings.  She  darned  away  until  she  heard  Nanny  stirring, 
and  then  drowisuess  came  with  the  dawn ;  the  candle  was 
put  out,  and  she  sank  into  a  doze.  But  at  nine  o'clock  she 
was  at  the  breakfast-table,  busy  cutting  bread-and-butter  for 
tive  hungry  mouths,  while  Nanny,  baby  on  one  arm,  in  rosy 
cheeks,  fat  neck,  and  night-gown,  brought  in  a  jug  of  hot 
milk  and  water.  Nearest  her  mother  sits  the  nine-year-old 
Patt}",  the  eldest  child,  whose  sweet  fair  face  is  already  rather 
grave  sometimes,  and  who  always  wants  to  run  upstairs  to 
save  mamma's  legs,  which  get  so  tired  of  an  evening.  Then 
there  are  four  other  blond  heads — two  boys  and  two  girls, 
gradually  decreasing  in  size  down  to  Chubby,  who  is  making 
a  round  O  of  her  mouth  to  receive  a  bit  of  papa's  "baton." 
Papa's  attention  was  divided  between  petting  Chubby,  rebuk- 
ing the  noisy  Fred,  which  he  did  with  a  somewhat  excessive 
sharpness,  and  eating  his  own  breakfast.  He  had  not  yet 
looked  at  Mamma,  and  did  not  know  that  her  cheek  was  paler 
than  usual.  But  Patty  whispered:  "Mamma,  have  you  the 
headache?" 

Happily  coal  was  cheap  in  the  neighborhood  of  Shepper- 
tou,  and  Mr.  Hackit  would  any  time  let  his  horses  draw  a 
load  for  "  the  parson  "  without  charge ;  so  there  was  a  blazing 
fire  in  the  sitting-room,  and  not  without  need,  for  the  vi- 


20  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

carage  garden,  as  they  looked  out  on  it  from  the  bow-window, 
was  hard  with  black  frost,  and  the  sky  had  the  white  woolly 
look  that  portends  snow. 

Breakfast  over,  Mr.  Barton  mounted  to  his  study,  and  oc- 
cupied himself  in  the  first  place  with  his  letter  to  Mr.  Oldin- 
port.  It  was  very  much  the  same  sort  of  letter  as  most  clergy- 
men would  have  written  under  the  same  circumstances,  except 
that  instead  of  perambulate,  the  Rev.  Amos  wrote  pre&mbu- 
late,  and  instead  of  "  if  haply, "  "  if  happily, "  the  contingency 
indicated  being  the  reverse  of  happy.  Mr.  Barton  had  not 
the  gift  of  perfect  accuracy  in  English  orthography  and  syn- 
tax, which  was  unfortunate,  as  he  was  known  not  to  be  a 
Hebrew  scholar,  and  not  in  the  least  suspected  of  being  an 
accomplished  Grecian.  These  lapses,  in  a  man  who  had  gone 
through  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  of  a  university  education, 
surprised  the  young  ladies  of  his  parish  extremely ;  especially 
the  Misses  Farquhar,  whom  he  had  once  addressed  in  a  letter 
as  Dear  Mads.,  apparently  an  abbreviation  for  Madams.  The 
persons  least  surprised  at  the  Rev.  Amos's  deficiencies  were 
his  clerical  brethren,  who  had  gone  through  the  mysteries 
themselves. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Mr.  Barton  walked  forth  in  cape  and 
boa,  with  the  sleet  driving  in  his  face,  to  read  prayers  at  the 
work -house,  euphuistically  called  the  "  College."  The  College 
was  a  huge  square  stone  building,  standing  on  the  best  apol- 
ogy for  an  elevation  of  ground  that  could  be  seen  for  about 
ten  miles  round  Shepperton.  A  flat  ugly  district  this;  de- 
pressing enough  to  look  at  even  on  the  brightest  days.  The 
roads  are  black  with  coal-dust,  the  brick  houses  dingy  with 
smoke ;  and  at  that  time — the  time  of  handloorn  weavers — 
every  other  cottage  had  a  loom  at  its  window,  where  you 
might  see  a  pale,  sickly  looking  man  or  woman  pressing  a 
narrow  chest  against  a  board,  and  doing  a  sort  of  treadmill 
work  with  legs  and  arms.  A  troublesome  district  for  a  cler- 
gyman; at  least  to  one  who,  like  Amos  Barton,  understood 
the  "  cure  of  souls  "  in  something  more  than  an  official  sense ; 
for  over  and  above  the  rustic  stupidity  furnished  by  the  farm- 
laborers,  the  miners  brought  obstreperous  animalism,  and  the 
weavers  an  acrid  Radicalism  and  Dissent.  Indeed,  Mrs. 


AMOS  BARTON.  21 

Hackit  often  observed  that  the  colliers,  who  many  of  them 
earned  better  wages  than  Mr.  Barton,  "  passed  their  time  in 
doing  nothing  but  swilling  ale  and  smoking,  like  the  beasts 
that  perish  "  (speaking,  we  may  presume,  in  a  remotely  ana- 
logical sense) ;  and  in  some  of  the  ale-house  corners  the  drink 
was  flavored  by  a  dingy  kind  of  infidelity,  something  like 
rinsings  of  Tom  Paine  in  ditch-water.  A  certain  amount  of 
religious  excitement  created  by  the  popular  preaching  of  Mr. 
Parry,  Amos's  predecessor,  had  nearly  died  out,  and  the  relig- 
ious life  of  Shepperton  was  falling  back  toward  low-water 
mark.  Here,  you  perceive,  was  a  terrible  stronghold  of  Sa- 
tan ;  and  you  may  well  pity  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  who  had 
to  stand  single-handed  and  summon  it  to  surrender.  We 
read,  indeed,  that  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  down  before  the 
sound  of  trumpets ;  but  we  nowhere  hear  that  those  trumpets 
were  hoarse  and  feeble.  Doubtless  they  were  trumpets  that 
gave  forth  clear  ringing  tones,  and  sent  a  mighty  vibration 
through  brick  and  mortar.  But  the  oratory  of  the  Rev.  Amos 
resembled  rather  a  Belgian  railway-horn,  which  shows  praise- 
worthy intentions  inadequately  fulfilled.  He  often  missed  the 
right  note  both  in  public  and  private  exhortation,  and  got 
a  little  angry  in  consequence.  For  though  Amos  thought 
himself  strong,  he  did  not  feel  himself  strong.  Nature  had 
given  him  the  opinion,  but  not  the  sensation.  Without  that 
opinion  he  would  probably  never  have  worn  cambric  bands, 
but  would  have  been  an  excellent  cabinet-maker  and  deacon 
of  an  Independent  church,  as  his  father  was  before  him  (he 
was  not  a  shoemaker,  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  reported).  He 
might  then  have  sniffed  long  and  loud  in  the  corner  of  his 
pew,  in  Gun  Street  Chapel;  he  might  have  indulged  in  halt- 
ing rhetoric  at  prayer-meetings,  and  have  spoken  faulty  Eng- 
lish in  private  life;  and  these  little  infirmities  would  not  have 
prevented  him,  honest  faithful  man  that  he  was,  from  being 
a  shining  light  in  the  Dissenting  circle  of  Bridgeport.  A  tal- 
low dip,  of  the  long-eight  description,  is  an  excellent  thing  in 
the  kitchen  candlestick,  and  Betty's  nose  and  eye  are  not  sen- 
sitive to  the  difference  between  it  and  the  finest  wax;  it  is 
only  when  you  stick  it  in  the  silver  candlestick,  and  introduce 
It  into  the  drawing-room,  that  it  seems  plebeian,  dim,  and  in- 


22  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

effectual.  Alas  for  the  worthy  man  who,  like  the  candle,  gets 
himself  into  the  wrong  place!  It  is  only  the  very  largest 
souls  who  will  be  able  to  appreciate  and  pity  him — who  will 
discern  and  love  sincerity  of  purpose  amid  all  the  bungling 
feebleness  of  achievement. 

But  now  Amos  Barton  has  made  his  way  through  the  sleet 
as  far  as  the  College,  has  thrown  off  his  hat,  cape,  and  boa, 
and  is  reading,  in  the  dreary  stone-floored  dining-room,  a  por- 
tion of  the  morning  service  to  the  inmates  seated  on  the 
benches  before  him.  Bemember,  the  New  Poor-law  had  not 
yet  come  into  operation,  and  Mr.  Barton  was  not  acting  as 
paid  chaplain  of  the  Union,  but  as  the  pastor  who  had  the 
cure  of  all  souls  in  his  parish,  pauper,  as  well  as  other.  After 
the  prayers  he  always  addressed  to  them  a  short  discourse  on 
some  subject  suggested  by  the  lesson  for  the  day,  striving  if 
by  this  means  some  edifying  matter  might  find  its  way  into 
the  pauper  mind  and  conscience — perhaps  a  task  as  trying  as 
you  could  well  imagine  to  the  faith  and  patience  of  any  honest 
clergyman.  For,  on  the  very  first  bench,  these  were  the  faces 
on  which  his  eye  had  to  rest,  watching  whether  there  was  any 
stirring  under  the  stagnant  surface. 

Right  in  front  of  him — probably  because  he  was  stone-deaf, 
and  it  was  deemed  more  edifying  to  hear  nothing  at  a  short 
distance  than  at  a  long  one — sat  "  Old  Maxurn, "  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  his  real  patronymic  remaining  a  mystery  to 
most  persons.  A  fine  philological  sense  discerns  in  this  cog- 
nomen an  indication  that  the  pauper  patriarch  had  once  been 
considered  pithy  and  sententious  in  his  speech ;  but  now  the 
weight  of  ninety-five  years  lay  heavy  on  his  tongue  as  well  as 
on  his  ears,  and  he  sat  before  the  clergyman  with  protruded 
chin,  and  munching  mouth,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  at 
emptiness. 

Next  to  him  sat  Poll  Fodge — known  to  the  magistracy  of 
her  county  as  Mary  Higgins — a  one-eyed  woman,  with  a 
scarred  and  seamy  face,  the  most  notorious  rebel  in  the  work- 
house, said  to  have  once  thrown  her  broth  over  the  master's 
coat-tails,  and  who,  in  spite  of  nature's  apparent  safeguard;; 
against  that  contingency,  had  contributed  to  the  perpetuation 
of  the  Fodge  characteristics  in  the  person  of  a  small  boy,  who 


AMOS  BARTON. 

was  behaving  naughtily  on  one  of  the  back  benches.  Miss 
Fodge  fixed  her  one  sore  eye  on  Mr.  Barton  with  a  sort  of 
hardy  defiance. 

Beyond  this  member  of  the  softer  sex,  at  the  end  of  the 
bench,  sat  "  Silly  Jim,"  a  young  man  afflicted  with  hydro- 
cephalus,  who  rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  gazed  at 
the  point  of  his  nose.  These  were  the  supporters  of  Old 
Maxum  on  his  right. 

On  his  left  sat  Mr.  Fitchett,  a  tall  fellow,  who  had  once 
been  a  footman  in  the  Oldinport  family,  and  in  that  giddy 
elevation  had  enunciated  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  boiled 
beef,  which  had  been  traditionally  handed  down  in  Shepper- 
ton  as  the  direct  cause  of  his  ultimate  reduction  to  pauper 
commons.  His  calves  were  now  shrunken,  and  his  hair  was 
gray  without  the  aid  of  powder ;  but  he  still  carried  his  chin 
as  if  he  were  conscious  of  a  stiff  cravat;  he  set  his  dilapidated 
hat  on  with  a  knowing  inclination  toward  the  left  ear ;  and 
when  he  was  on  field-work,  he  carted  and  uncarted  the  manure 
with  a  sort  of  flunkey  grace,  the  ghost  of  that  jaunty  demeanor 
with  which  he  used  to  usher  in  my  lady's  morning  visitors. 
The  flunkey  nature  was  nowhere  completely  subdued  but  in 
his  stomach,  and  he  still  divided  society  into  gentry,  gentry's 
flunkeys,  and  the  people  who  provided  for  them.  A  clergy- 
man without  a  flunkey  was  an  anomaly,  belonging  to  neither 
of  these  classes.  Mr.  Fitchett  had  an  irrepressible  tendency 
to  drowsiness  under  spiritual  instruction,  and  in  the  recurrent 
regularity  with  which  he  dozed  off  until  he  nodded  and 
awaked  himself,  he  looked  not  unlike  a  piece  of  mechanism, 
ingeniously  contrived  for  measuring  the  length  of  Mr.  Bar- 
ton's discourse. 

Perfectly  wide-awake,  on  the  contrary,  was  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Brick,  one  of  those  hard  undying  old  women, 
to  whom  age  seems  to  have  given  a  network  of  wrinkles,  as 
a  coat  of  magic  armor  against  the  attacks  of  winters,  warm  or 
cold.  The  point  on  which  Mrs.  Brick  was  still  sensitive — the 
theme  on  which  you  might  possibly  excite  her  hope  and  fear 
—was  snuff.  It  seemed  to  be  an  embalming  powder,  helping 
her  soul  to  do  the  office  of  salt. 

And  now,  eke  out  an  audience  of  which  this  front  benchful 


24  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

was  a  sample,  with  a  certain  number  of  refractory  children, 
over  whom  Mr.  Spratt,  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  exercised 
an  irate  surveillance,  and  I  think  you  will  admit  that  the  uni- 
versity-taught clergyman,  whose  office  it  is  to  bring  home  the 
gospel  to  a  handful  of  such  souls,  has  a  sufficiently  hard 
task.  For,  to  have  any  chance  of  success,  short  of  miraculous 
intervention,  he  must  bring  his  geographical,  chronological, 
exegetical  mind  pretty  nearly  to  the  pauper  point  of  view,  or 
of  no  view ;  he  must  have  some  approximate  conception  of  the 
mode  in  which  the  doctrines  that  have  so  much  vitality  in  the 
plenum  of  his  own  brain  will  comport  themselves  in  vacua— 
that  is  to  say,  in  a  brain  that  is  neither  geographical,  chrono- 
logical, nor  exegetical.  It  is  a  flexible  imagination  that  can 
take  such  a  leap  as  that,  and  an  adroit  tongue  that  can  adapt 
its  speech  to  so  unfamiliar  a  position.  The  Rev.  Amos  Barton 
had  neither  that  flexible  imagination,  nor  that  adroit  tongue. 
He  talked  of  Israel  and  its  sins,  of  chosen  vessels,  of  the 
Paschal  lamb,  of  blood  as  a  medium  of  reconciliation ;  and  he 
strove  in  this  way  to  convey  religious  truth  within  reach  of 
the  Fodge  and  Fitchett  mind.  This  very  morning,  the  first 
lesson  was  the  twelfth  chapter  of  Exodus,  and  Mr.  Barton's 
exposition  turned  on  unleavened  bread.  Nothing  in  the  world 
more  suited  to  the  simple  understanding  than  instruction 
through  familiar  types  and  symbols !  But  there  is  always  this 
danger  attending  it,  that  the  interest  or  comprehension  of 
your  hearers  may  stop  short  precisely  at  the  point  where  your 
spiritual  interpretation  begins.  And  Mr.  Barton  this  morning 
succeeded  in  carrying  the  pauper  imagination  to  the  dough- 
tub,  but  unfortunately  was  not  able  to  carry  it  upward  from 
that  well-known  object  to  the  unknown  truths  which  it  was 
intended  to  shadow  forth. 

Alas!  a  natural  incapacity  for  teaching,  finished  by  keep- 
ing "  terms  "  at  Cambridge,  where  there  are  able  mathemati- 
cians, and  butter  is  sold  by  the  yard,  is  not  apparently  the 
medium  through  which  Christian  doctrine  will  distil  as  wel- 
come dew  on  withered  souls. 

And  so,  while  the  sleet  outside  was  turning  to  unquestion- 
able snow,  and  the  stony  dining-room  looked  darker  and  drear- 
ier, and  Mr.  Fitchett  was  nodding  his  lowest,  and  Mr.  Spratt 


AMOS  BARTON.  25 

was  boxing  the  boys'  ears  with,  a  constant  rinforzando,  as  he 
felt  more  keenly  the  approach  of  dinner-time,  Mr.  Barton 
wound  up  his  exhortation  with  something  of  the  February 
chill  at  his  heart  as  well  as  his  feet.  Mr.  Fitchett,  thoroughly 
roused  now  the  instruction  was  at  an  end,  obsequiously  and 
gracefully  advanced  to  help  Mr.  Barton  in  putting  on  his  cape, 
while  Mrs.  Brick  rubbed  her  withered  forefinger  round  and 
round  her  little  shoe-shaped  snuff-box,  vainly  seeking  for  the 
fraction  of  a  pinch.  I  can't  help  thinking  that  if  Mr.  Barton 
had  shaken  into  that  little  box  a  small  portion  of  Scotch  high- 
dried,  he  might  have  produced  something  more  like  an  amiable 
emotion  in  Mrs.  Brick's  mind  than  anything  she  had  felt 
under  his  morning's  exposition  of  the  unleavened  bread.  But 
our  good  Amos  labored  under  a  deficiency  of  small  tact  as  well 
as  of  small  cash ;  and  when  he  observed  the  action  of  the  old 
woman's  forefinger,  he  said,  in  his  brusque  way :  "  So  your 
snuff  is  all  gone,  eh?  " 

Mrs.  Brick's  eyes  twinkled  with  the  visionary  hope  that  the 
parson  might  be  intending  to  replenish  her  box,  at  least  medi- 
ately, through  the  present  of  a  small  copper. 

"Ah,  well!  you'll  soon  be  going  where  there  is  no  more 
snuff.  You'll  be  in  need  of  mercy  then.  You  must  remem- 
ber that  you  may  have  to  seek  for  mercy  and  not  find  it,  just 
as  you're  seeking  for  snuff." 

At  the  first  sentence  of  this  admonition,  the  twinkle  sub- 
sided from  Mrs.  Brick's  eyes.  The  lid  of  her  box  went 
"  click !  "  and  her  heart  was  shut  up  at  the  same  moment. 

But  now  Mr.  Barton's  attention  was  called  for  by  Mr. 
Spratt,  who  was  dragging  a  small  and  unwilling  boy  from  the 
rear.  Mr.  Spratt  was  a  small-featured,  small-statured  man, 
with  a  remarkable  power  of  language,  mitigated  by  hesitation, 
who  piqued  himself  on  expressing  unexceptionable  sentiments 
in  unexceptionable  language  on  all  occasions. 

"  Mr.  Barton,  sir — aw — aw — excuse  my  trespassing  on  your 
time — aw — to  beg  that  you  will  administer  a  rebuke  to  this 
boy ;  he  is — aw — aw — most  inveterate  in  ill-behavior  during 
service-time." 

The  inveterate  culprit  was  a  boy  of  seven,  vainly  contend- 
ing against  a  cold  in  his  nose  by  feeble  sniffling.  But  no 


26  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sooner  had  Mr.  Spratt  uttered  his  impeachment,  than  Miss 
Fodge  rushed  forward  and  placed  herself  between  Mr.  Barton 
and  the  accused. 

"That's  my  child,  Muster  Barton,"  she  exclaimed,  further 
manifesting  her  maternal  instincts  by  applying  her  apron  to 
her  offspring's  nose.  "He's  al'ys  a-findin'  faut  wi'  him,  and 
a-poundin'  him  for  nothin'.  Let  him  goo  an'  eat  his  roost 
goose  as  is  a-smellin'  up  in  our  noses  while  we're  a-swallering 
them  greasy  broth,  an'  let  my  boy  alooan." 

Mr.  Spratt' s  small  eyes  flashed,  and  he  was  in  danger  of 
uttering  sentiments  not  unexceptionable  before  the  clergyman ; 
but  Mr.  Barton,  foreseeing  that  a  prolongation  of  this  episode 
would  not  be  to  edification,  said  "  Silence !  "  in  his  severest 
tones. 

"  Let  me  hear  no  abuse.     Your  boy  is  not  likely  to  behave 
well,  if  you  set  him  the  example  of  being    saucy."     Then 
stooping  down  to  Master  Fodge,  and  taking  him  by  the  shoul- 
der :  "  Do  you  like  being  beaten?  " 
"No-a." 

"  Then  what  a  silly  boy  you  are  to  be  naughty.  If  you 
were  not  naughty,  you  wouldn't  be  beaten.  But  if  you  are 
naughty,  God  will  be  angry,  as  well  as  Mr.  Spratt;  and  God 
can  burn  you  forever.  That  will  be  worse  than  being  beaten. " 

Master  Fodge 's  countenance  was  neither  affirmative  nor 
negative  of  this  proposition. 

"But,"  continued  Mr.  Barton,  "if  you  will  be  a  good  boy, 
God  will  love  you,  and  you  will  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man. 
Now,  let  me  hear  next  Thursday  that  you  have  been  a  good 
boy." 

Master  Fodge  had  no  distinct  vision  of  the  benefit  that 
would  accrue  to  him  from  this  change  of  courses.  But  Mr. 
Barton,  being  aware  that  Miss  Fodge  had  touched  on  a  deli- 
cate subject  in  alluding  to  the  roast  goose,  was  determined  to 
witness  no  more  polemics  between  her  and  Mr.  Spratt,  so, 
saying  good-morning  to  the  latter,  he  hastily  left  the  College. 

The  snow  was  falling  in  thicker  and  thicker  flakes,  and  al- 
ready the  vicarage-garden  was  cloaked  in  white  as  he  passed 
through  the  gate.  Mrs.  Barton  heard  him  open  the  door,  and 
ran  out  of  the  sitting-room  to  meet  him. 


AMOS  BARTON.  27 

"I'm  afraid  your  feet  are  very  wet,  dear.  What  a  terrible 
morning!  Let  me  take  your  hat.  Your  slippers  are  at  the 
fire." 

Mr.  Barton  was  feeling  a  little  cold  and  cross.  It  is  diffi- 
cult, when  you  have  been  doing  disagreeable  duties,  without 
praise,  on  a  snowy  day,  to  attend  to  the  very  minor  morals. 
So  he  showed  no  recognition  of  Milly's  attentions,  but  simply 
said:  "  Fetch  me  my  dressing-gown,  will  you?  " 

-•'It  is  down,  dear.  I  thought  you  wouldn't  go  into  the 
study,  because  you  said  you  would  letter  and  number  the 
books  for  the  Lending  Library.  Patty  and  I  have  been  cov- 
ering them,  and  they  are  all  ready  in  the  sitting-room." 

"Oh,  I  can't  do  those  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Barton,  as 
he  took  off  his  boots  and  put  his  feet  into  the  slippers  Milly 
had  brought  him ;  "  you  must  put  them  away  into  the  parlor. " 

The  sitting-room  was  also  the  day  nursery  and  schoolroom ; 
and  while  Mamma's  back  was  turned,  Dickey,  the  second  boy, 
had  insisted  on  superseding  Chubby  in  the  guidance  of  a 
headless  horse,  of  the  red-wafered  species,  which  she  was 
drawing  round  the  room,  so  that  when  Papa  opened  the  door 
Chubby  was  giving  tongue  energetically. 

"  Milly,  some  of  these  children  must  go  away.  I  want  to 
be  quiet. " 

"  Yes,  dear.  Hush,  Chubby ;  go  with  Patty,  and  see  what 
Nanny  is  getting  for  our  dinner.  Now,  Fred  and  Sophy  and 
Dickey,  help  me  to  carry  these  books  into  the  parlor.  There 
are  three  for  Dickey.  Carry  them  steadily." 

Papa  meanwhile  settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair,  and  took 
up  a  work  on  Episcopacy,  which  he  had  from  the  Clerical 
Book  Society ;  thinking  he  would  finish  it  and  return  it  this 
afternoon,  as  he  was  going  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  at  Milby 
Vicarage,  where  the  Book  Society  had  its  headquarters. 

The  Clerical  Meeting  and  Book  Society,  which  had  been 
founded  some  eight  or  ten  months,  had  had  a  noticeable  effect 
on  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton.  When  he  first  came  to  Shepper- 
ton  he  was  simply  an  evangelical  clergyman,  whose  Christian 
experiences  had  commenced  under  the  teaching  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Johns,  of  Gun  Street  Chapel,  and  had  been  consolidated 
at  Cambridge  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Simeon.  John  New- 


28  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ton  and  Thomas  Scott  were  his  doctrinal  ideals;  he  would 
have  taken  in  the  Christian  Observer  and  the  Record,  if  he 
could  have  afforded  it ;  his  anecdotes  were  chiefly  of  the  pious- 
jocose  kind,  current  in  Dissenting  circles;  and  he  thought  an 
Episcopalian  Establishment  unobjectionable. 

But  by  this  time  the  effect  of  the  Tractarian  agitation  was 
beginning  to  be  felt  in  backward  provincial  regions,  and  the 
Tractarian  satire  on  the  Low-Church  party  was  beginning  to 
tell  even  on  those  who  disavowed  or  resisted  Tractarian  doc- 
trines. The  vibration  of  an  intellectual  movement  was  felt 
from  the  golden  head  to  the  miry  toes  of  the  Establishment ; 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  in  the  district  round  Milby,  the 
market-town  close  to  Shepperton,  the  clergy  had  agreed  to 
have  a  clerical  meeting  every  month  wherein  they  would  exer- 
cise their  intellects  by  discussing  theological  and  ecclesiastical 
questions,  and  cement  their  brotherly  love  by  discussing  a 
good  dinner.  A  Book  Society  naturally  suggested  itself  as  an 
adjunct  of  this  agreeable  plan;  and  thus,  you  perceive,  there 
was  provision  made  for  ample  friction  of  the  clerical  mind. 

Now,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  was  one  of  those  men  who 
have  a  decided  will  and  opinion  of  their  own ;  he  held  himself 
bolt  upright,  and  had  no  self-distrust.  He  would  march  very 
determinedly  along  the  road  he  thought  best ;  but  then  it  was 
wonderfully  easy  to  convince  him  which  was  the  best  road. 
And  so  a  very  little  unwonted  reading  and  unwonted  discus- 
sion made  him  see  that  an  Episcopalian  Establishment  was 
much  more  than  unobjectionable,  and  on  many  other  points  he 
began  to  feel  that  he  held  opinions  a  little  too  far-sighted  and 
profound  to  be  crudely  and  suddenly  communicated  to  ordinary 
minds.  He  was  like  an  onion  that  has  been  rubbed  with 
spices;  the  strong  original  odor  was  blended  with  something 
new  and  foreign.  The  Low-Church  onion  still  offended  refined 
High-Church  nostrils,  and  the  new  spice  was  unwelcome  to  the 
palate  of  the  genuine  onion-eater. 

We  will  not  accompany  him  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  to-day, 
because  we  shall  probably  want  to  go  thither  some  day  when 
he  will  be  absent.  And  just  now  I  am  bent  on  introducing 
you  to  Mr.  Bridinain  and  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  with  whom 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  invited  to  dine  to-morrow. 


AMOS  BATTON.  29 


CHAPTER  III. 

OUTSIDE,  the  moon  is  shedding  its  cold  light  on  the  cold 
snow,  and  the  white-bearded  fir-trees  round  Camp  Villa  are 
casting  a  blue  shadow  across  the  white  ground,  while  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton  and  his  wife  are  audibly  crushing  the  crisp  snow 
beneath  their  feet,  as,  about  seven  o'clock  on  Friday  evening, 
they  approach  the  door  of  the  above-named  desirable  country 
residence,  containing  dining,  breakfast,  and  drawing  rooms, 
etc.,  situated  only  half  a  mile  from  the  market- town  of  Mil  by. 

Inside,  there  is  a  bright  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  casting 
a  pleasant  but  uncertain  light  on  the  delicate  silk  dress  of  a 
lady  who  is  reclining  behind  a  screen  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
and  allowing  you  to  discern  that  the  hair  of  the  gentleman 
who  is  seated  in  the  arm-chair  opposite,  with  a  newspaper 
over  his  knees,  is  becoming  decidedly  gray.  A  little  "  King 
Charles, "  with  a  crimson  ribbon  round  his  neck,  who  has  been 
lying  curled  up  in  the  very  middle  of  the  hearth-rug,  has  just 
discovered  that  that  zone  is  too  hot  for  him,  and  is  jumping 
on  the  sofa,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  accommodating  his 
person  on  the  silk  gown.  On  the  table  there  are  two  wax- 
candles,  which  will  be  lighted  as  soon  as  the  expected  knock 
is  heard  at  the  door. 

The  knock  is  heard,  the  candles  are  lighted,  and  presently 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  ushered  in — Mr.  Barton  erect  and 
clerical,  in  a  faultless  tie  and  shining  cranium ;  Mrs.  Barton 
graceful  in  a  newly  turned  black  silk. 

"  Now  this  is  charming  of  you,"  said  the  Countess  Czerlaski, 
advancing  to  meet  them,  and  embracing  Milly  with  careful 
elegance.  "  I  am  really  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  in  asking 
my  friends  to  come  and  see  me  in  this  frightful  weather." 
Then,  giving  her  hand  to  Amos:  "And  you,  Mr.  Barton, 
whose  time  is  so  precious !  But  I  am  doing  a  good  deed  in 
drawing  you  away  from  your  labors.  I  have  a  plot  to  prevent 
you  from  martyrizing  yourself." 

While  this  greeting  was  going  forward,  Mr.  Bridmain,  and 
Jet  the  spaniel,  looked  on  with  the  air  of  actors  who  had  no 


30  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

idea  of  by-play.  Mr.  Bridmain,  a  stiff  and  rather  thick-set 
man,  gave  his  welcome  with  a  labored  cordiality.  It  was  as- 
tonishing how  very  little  he  resembled  his  beautiful  sister. 

For  the  Countess  Czerlaski  was  undeniably  beautiful.  As 
she  seated  herself  by  Mrs.  Barton  on  the  sofa,  Milly's  eyes, 
indeed,  rested — must  it  be  confessed? — chiefly  on  the  details 
of  the  tasteful  dress,  the  rich  silk  of  a  pinkish  lilac  hue  (the 
Countess  always  wore  delicate  colors  in  an  evening),  the  black 
lace  pelerine,  and  the  black  lace  veil  falling  at  the  back  of  the 
small,  closely  braided  head.  For  Milly  had  one  weakness— 
don't  love  her  any  the  less  for  it,  it  was  a  pretty  woman's 
weakness — she  was  fond  of  dress :  and  often,  when  she  was 
making  up  her  own  economical  millinery,  she  had  romantic 
visions  how  nice  it  would  be  to  put  on  really  handsome  stylish 
things — to  have  very  stiff  balloon  sleeves,  for  example,  with- 
out which  a  woman's  dress  was  nought  in  those  days.  You 
and  I,  too,  reader,  have  our  weakness,  have  we  not?  which 
makes  us  think  foolish  things  now  and  then.  Perhaps  it  may 
lie  in  an  excessive  admiration  for  small  hands  and  feet,  a  tall 
lithe  figure,  large  dark  eyes,  and  dark  silken  braided  hair. 
All  these  the  Countess  possessed,  and  she  had,  moreover,  a 
delicately  formed  nose,  the  least  bit  curved,  and  a  clear  bru- 
nette complexion.  Her  mouth,  it  must  be  admitted,  receded 
too  much  from  her  nose  and  chin,  and  to  a  prophetic  eye 
threatened  "  nut-crackers  "  in  advanced  age.  But  by  the  light 
of  fire  and  wax-candles  that  age  seemed  very  far  off  indeed, 
and  you  would  have  said  that  the  Countess  was  not  more  than 
thirty. 

Look  at  the  two  women  on  the  sofa  together !  The  large, 
fair,  mild-eyed  Milly  is  timid  even  in  friendship:  it  is  not 
easy  to  her  to  speak  of  the  affection  of  which  her  heart  is  full. 
The  lithe,  dark,  thin-lipped  Countess  is  racking  her  small 
brain  for  caressing  words  and  charming  exaggerations. 

"  And  how  are  all  the  cherubs  at  home?  "  said  the  Count- 
ess, stopping  to  pick  up  Jet,  and  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer. "  I  have  been  kept  indoors  by  a  cold  ever  since  Sunday , 
or  I  should  not  have  rested  without  seeing  you.  What  have 
you  done  with  those  wretched  singers,  Mr.  Barton?" 

"  Oh,  we  have  got  a  new  choir  together,  which  will  go  on 


AMOS  BARTON.  31 

very  well  with  a  little  practice.  I  was  quite  determined  that 
the  old  set  of  singers  should  be  dismissed.  I  had  given  orders 
that  they  should  not  sing  the  wedding-psalm,  as  they  call  it, 
again,  to  make  a  new-married  couple  look  ridiculous,  and  they 
sang  it  in  defiance  of  me.  I  could  put  them  into  the  Ecclesi- 
astical Court,  if  I  chose  for  to  do  so,  for  lifting  up  their  voices 
in  church  in  opposition  to  the  clergyman." 

"  And  a  most  wholesome  discipline  that  would  be, "  said  the 
Countess;  "indeed,  you  are  too  patient  and  forbearing,  Mr. 
Barton.  For  my  part,  /  lose  my  temper  when  I  see  how 
far  you  are  from  being  appreciated  in  that  miserable  Shep- 
pertoii. " 

If,  as  is  probable,  Mr.  Barton  felt  at  a  loss  what  to  say  in 
reply  to  the  insinuated  compliment,  it  was  a  relief  to  him  that 
dinner  was  announced  just  then,  and  that  he  had  to  offer  his 
arm  to  the  Countess. 

As  Mr.  Bridmain  was  leading  Mrs.  Barton  to  the  dining- 
room,  he  observed :  "  The  weather  is  very  severe. " 

'•  Very,  indeed,"  said  Milly. 

Mr.  Bridmain  studied  conversation  as  an  art.  To  ladies  he 
spoke  of  the  weather,  and  was  accustomed  to  consider  it  under 
three  points  of  view :  as  a  question  of  climate  in  general,  com- 
paring England  with  other  countries  in  this  respect;  as  a  per- 
sonal question,  inquiring  how  it  affected  his  lady  interlocutor 
in  particular;  and  as  a  question  of  probabilities,  discussing 
whether  there  would  be  a  change  or  a  continuance  of  the  pres- 
ent atmospheric  conditions.  To  gentlemen  he  talked  politics, 
and  he  read  two  daily  papers  expressly  to  qualify  himself  for 
this  function.  Mr.  Barton  thought  him  a  man  of  considerable 
political  information,  but  not  of  lively  parts. 

"And  so  you  are  always  to  hold  your  Clerical  Meetings  at 
Mr.  Ely's?"  said  the  Countess,  between  her  spoonfuls  of 
soup.  (The  soup  was  a  little  over-spiced.  Mrs.  Short  of 
Camp  Villa,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  letting  her  best  apart- 
ments, gave  only  moderate  wages  to  her  cook.) 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barton;  "Milby  is  a  central  place,  and 
there  are  many  conveniences  in  having  only  one  point  of  meet- 
ing." 

"  Well, "  continued  the  Countess,  "  every  one  seems  to  agree 


32  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

in  giving  the  precedence  to  Mr.  Ely.  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
admire  him.  His  preaching  is  too  cold  for  me.  It  has  no 
fervor — no  heart.  I  often  say  tto  my  brother,  it  is  a  great 
comfort  to  me  that  Shepperton  Church  is  not  too  far  off  for  us 
to  go  to;  don't  I,  Edmund?" 

"  Yes, "  answered  Mr.  Bridmain ;  "  they  show  us  into  such 
a  bad  pew  at  Milby — just  where  there  is  a  draught  from  that 
door.  I  caught  a  stiff  neck  the  first  time  I  went  there. " 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  cold  in  the  pulpit  that  affects  me,  not  the 
cold  in  the  pew.  I  was  writing  to  my  friend  Lady  Porter 
this  morning,  and  telling  her  all  about  my  feelings.  She  and 
I  think  alike  on  such  matters.  She  is  most  anxious  that  when 
Sir  William  has  an  opportunity  of  giving  away  the  living  at 
their  place,  Dippley,  they  should  have  a  thoroughly  zealous, 
clever  man  there.  I  have  been  describing  a  certain  friend  of 
mine  to  her,  who,  I  think,  would  be  just  to  her  mind.  And 
there  is  such  a  pretty  rectory,  Milly ;  shouldn't  I  like  to  see 
you  the  mistress  of  it?  " 

Milly  smiled  and  blushed  slightly.  The  Kev.  Amos  blushed 
very  red  and  gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh — he  could  rarely 
keep  his  muscles  within  the  limits  of  a  smile. 

At  this  moment  John,  the  man-servant,  approached  Mrs. 
Barton  with  a  gravy -tureen,  and  also  with  a  slight  odor  of  the 
stable,  which  usually  adhered  to  him  throughout  his  indoor 
functions.  John  was  rather  nervous ;  and  the  Countess,  hap- 
pening to  speak  to  him  at  this  inopportune  moment,  the  tureen 
slipped  and  emptied  itself  on  Mrs.  Barton's  newly  turned 
black  silk. 

"  Oh,  horror !  Tell  Alice  to  come  directly  and  rub  Mrs. 
Barton's  dress,"  said  the  Countess  to  the  trembling  John,  care- 
fully abstaining  from  approaching  the  gravy-sprinkled  spot 
on  the  floor  with  her  own  lilac  silk.  But  Mr.  Bridmain,  who 
had  a  strictly  private  interest  in  silks,  good-naturedly  jumped 
up  and  applied  his  napkin  at  once  to  Mrs.  Barton's  gown. 

Milly  felt  a  little  inward  anguish,  but  no  ill-temper,  and 
tried  to  make  light  of  the  matter  for  the  sake  of  John  as  well 
as  others.  The  Countess  felt  inwardly  thankful  that  her  own 
delicate  silk  had  escaped,  but  threw  out  lavish  interjections  of 
distress  and  indignation. 


AMOS  BARTON.  33 

"  Dear  saint  that  you  are, "  she  said,  when  Milly  laughed, 
and  suggested  that,  as  her  silk  was  not  very  glossy  to  begin 
with,  the  dim  patch  would  not  be  much  seen;  "you  don't 
mind  about  these  things,  I  know.  Just  the  same  sort  of 
thing  happened  to  me  at  the  Princess  Wengstein's  one  day, 
on  a  pink  satin.  I  was  in  an  agony.  But  you  are  so  indiffer- 
ent to  dress;  and  well  you  may  be.  It  is  you  who  make  dress 
pretty,  and  not  dress  that  makes  you  pretty." 

Alice,  the  buxom  lady's  maid,  wearing  a  much  better  dress 
than  Mrs.  Barton's,  now  appeared  to  take  Mr.  Bridmain's 
place  in  retrieving  the  mischief,  and  after  a  great  amount  of 
supplementary  rubbing,  composure  was  restored,  and  the  busi- 
ness of  dining  was  continued. 

When  John  was  recounting  his  accident  to  the  cook  in  the 
kitchen,  he  observed:  "Mrs.  Barton's  a  hamable  woman;  I'd 
a  deal  sooner  ha'  throwed  the  gravy  o'er  the  Countess's  fine 
gownd.  But  laws!  what  tantrums  she'd  ha'  been  in  arter  the 
visitors  was  gone." 

"  You'd  a  deal  sooner  not  ha'  throwed  it  down  at  all,  I 
should  think,"  responded  the  unsympathetic  cook,  to  whom 
John  did  not  make  love.  "Who  d'you  think's  to  make  gravy 
anuff,  if  you're  to  baste  people's  gowuds  wi'  it?  " 

"Well,"  suggested  John,  humbly,  "you  should  wet  the 
bottom  of  the  duree  a  bit,  to  hold  it  from  slippin'." 

"  Wet  your  granny !  "  returned  the  cook ;  a  retort  which  she 
probably  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  reductio  ad  absurdum,  and 
which  in  fact  reduced  John  to  silence. 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  while  John  was  removing  the  tea- 
things  from  the  drawing-room,  and  brushing  the  crumbs  from 
the  table-cloth  with  an  accompanying  hiss,  such  as  he  was 
wont  to  encourage  himself  with  in  rubbing  down  Mr.  Brid- 
main's horse,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
thin  green-covered  pamphlet,  and,  presenting  it  to  the  Count- 
ess, said: 

"  You  were  pleased,  I  think,  with  my  sermon  on  Christmas 
Day.  It  has  been  printed  in  '  The  Pulpit, '  and  I  thought 
you  might  like  a  copy." 

"  That  indeed  I  shall.  I  shall  quite  value  the  opportunity 
of  reading  that  sermon.  There  was  such  depth  in  it! — such 


34  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

argument !  It  was  not  a  sermon  to  be  heard  only  once.  I  am 
delighted  that  it  should  become  generally  known,  as  it  will  be, 
now  it  is  printed  in  '  The  Pulpit. ' ' 

"  Yes, "  said  Milly,  innocently,  "  I  was  so  pleased  with  the 
editor's  letter."  And  she  drew  out  her  little  pocket-book, 
where  she  carefully  treasured  the  editorial  autograph,  while 
Mr.  Barton  laughed  and  blushed,  and  said:  "Nonsense, 
Milly!" 

"You  see,"  she  said,  giving  the  letter  to  the  Countess,  "I 
am  very  proud  of  the  praise  my  husband  gets." 

The  sermon  in  question,  by  the  by,  was  an  extremely  argu- 
mentative one  on  the  Incarnation ;  which,  as  it  was  preached 
to  a  congregation  not  one  of  whom  had  any  doubt  of  that  doc- 
trine, and  to  whom  the  Socinians  therein  confuted  were  as 
unknown  as  the  Arimaspians,  was  exceedingly  well  adapted  to 
trouble  and  confuse  the  Sheppertonian  mind. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Countess,;  returning  the  editor's  letter,  "he 
may  well  say  he  will  be  glad  of  other  sermons  from  the  same 
source.  But  I  would  rather  you  should  publish  your  sermons 
in  an  independent  volume,  Mr.  Barton ;  it  would  be  so  desir- 
able to  have  them  in  that  shape.  For  instance,  I  could  send 
a  copy  to  the  Dean  of  Eadborough.  And  there  is  Lord 
Blarney,  whom  I  knew  before  he  was  Chancellor.  I  was  a 
special  favorite  of  his,  and  you  can't  think  what  sweet  things 
he  used  to  say  to  me.  I  shall  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
write  to  him  one  of  these  days  sans  fagon,  and  tell  him 
how  he  ought  to  dispose  of  the  next  vacant  living  in  his 
gift." 

Whether  Jet  the  spaniel,  being  a  much  more  knowing  dog 
than  was  suspected,  wished  to  express  his  disapproval  of  the 
Countess's  last  speech,  as  not  accordant  with  his  ideas  of  wis- 
dom and  veracity,  I  cannot  say;  but  at  this  moment  he  jumped 
off  her  lap,  and  turning  his  back  upon  her,  placed  one  paw  on 
the  fender,  and  held  the  other  up  to  warm,  as  if  affecting  to 
abstract  himself  from  the  current  of  conversation. 

But  now  Mr.  Bridmain  brought  out  the  chess-board,  and 
Mr.  Barton  accepted  his  challenge  to  play  a  game,  with  im- 
mense satisfaction.  The  Kev.  Amos  was  very  fond  of  chess, 
as  most  people  are  who  can  continue  through  many  years  to 


AMOS  BARTON.  35 

create  interesting  vicissitudes  in  the  game,  by  taking  long- 
meditated  moves  with  their  knights,  and  subsequently  discov- 
ering that  they  have  thereby  exposed  their  queen. 

Chess  is  a  silent  game;  and  the  Countess's  chat  with  Milly 
is  in  quite  an  undertone — probably  relating  to  women's  mat- 
ters that  it  would  be  impertinent  for  us  to  listen  to;  so  we 
will  leave  Camp  Villa,  and  proceed  to  Milby  Vicarage,  where 
Mr.  Farquhar  has  sat  out  two  other  guests  with  whom  he  has 
been  dining  at  Mr.  Ely's,  and  is  now  rather  wearying  that 
reverend  gentleman  by  his  protracted  small-talk. 

Mr.  Ely  was  a  tall,  dark-haired,  distinguished-looking  man 
of  three  and  thirty.  By  the  laity  of  Milby  and  its  neighbor- 
hood he  was  regarded  as  a  man  of  quite  remarkable  powers 
and  learning,  who  must  make  a  considerable  sensation  in  Lon- 
don pulpits  and  drawing-rooms  on  his  occasional  visits  to  the 
metropolis ;  and  by  his  brother  clergy  he  was  regarded  as  a 
discreet  and  agreeable  fellow.  Mr.  Ely  never  got  into  a  warm 
discussion ;  he  suggested  what  might  be  thought,  but  rarely 
said  what  he  thought  himself;  he  never  let  either  men  or 
women  see  that  he  was  laughing  at  them,  and  he  never  gave 
any  one  an  opportunity  of  laughing  at  him.  In  one  thing  only 
he  was  injudicious.  He  parted  his  dark  wavy  hair  down  the 
middle ;  and  as  his  head  was  rather  flat  than  otherwise,  that 
style  of  coiffure  was  not  advantageous  to  him. 

Mr.  Farquhar,  though  not  a  parishioner  of  Mr.  Ely's,  was 
one  of  his  warmest  admirers,  and  thought  he  would  make  an 
unexceptionable  son-in-law,  in  spite  of  his  being  of  no  partic- 
ular "family."  Mr.  Farquhar  was  susceptible  on  the  point 
of  "  blood  " — his  own  circulating  fluid,  which  animated  a  short 
and  somewhat  flabby  person,  being,  he  considered,  of  very 
superior  quality. 

"  By  the  by, "  he  said,  with  a  certain  pomposity  counter- 
acted by  a  lisp,  "  what  an  ath  Barton  makth  of  himthelf, 
about  that  Bridmain  and  the  Counteth,  ath  she  callth  her- 
thelf.  After  you  were  gone  the  other  evening,  Mithith  Far- 
quhar wath  telling  him  the  general  opinion  about  them  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  he  got  quite  red  and  angry.  Bleth  your 
thoul,  he  believeth  the  whole  thtory  about  her  Polish  huth- 
band  and  hith  wonderful  ethcapeth ;  and  ath  for  her — why, 


36  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

lie  thinkth  her  perfection,  a  woman  of  motht  refined  feelingth, 
and  no  end  of  thtuff." 

Mr.  Ely  smiled.  "  Some  people  would  say  our  friend  Bar- 
ton was  not  the  best  judge  of  refinement.  Perhaps  the  lady 
flatters  him  a  little,  and  we  men  are  susceptible.  She  goes  to 
Shepperton  Church  every  Sunday — drawn  there,  let  us  sup- 
pose, by  Mr.  Barton's  eloquence." 

"Pthaw,"  said  Mr.  Farquhar;  "now,  to  my  mind,  you  have 
only  to  look  at  that  woman  to  thee  what  she  ith — throwing 
her  eyth  about  when  she  comth  into  church,  and  drething  in 
a  way  to  attract  attention.  I  should  thay,  she'th  tired  of  her 
brother  Bridmain,  and  looking  out  for  another  brother  with  a 
thtronger  family  likeneth.  Mithith  Farquhar  ith  very  fond 
of  Mithith  Barton,  and  ith  quite  dithtrethed  that  she  should 
athothiate  with  thuch  a  woman,  tho  she  attacked  him  on 
the  thubject  purpothly.  But  I  tell  her  it'th  of  no  uthe, 
with  a  pig-headed  fellow  like  him.  Barton'th  well-meaning 
enough,  but  tho  contheited.  I've  left  off  giving  him  my 
advithe." 

Mr.  Ely  smiled  inwardly  and  said  to  himself :  "  What  a 
punishment !  "  But  to  Mr.  Farquhar  he  said :  "  Barton  might 
be  more  judicious,  it  must  be  confessed."  He  was  getting 
tired,  and  did  not  want  to  develop  the  subject. 

"Why,  nobody  vithit-th  them  but  the  Bartonth,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Farquhar,  "and  why  should  thuch  people  come 
here,  unleth  they  had  particular  reathonth  for  preferring  a 
neighborhood  where  they  are  not  known?  Pooh!  it  lookth 
bad  on  the  very  f athe  of  it.  You  called  on  them,  now ;  how 
did  you  find  them?  " 

"Oh! — Mr.  Bridmain  strikes  me  as  a  common  sort  of  man, 
who  is  making  an  effort  to  seem  wise  and  well  bred.  He 
comes  down  on  one  tremendously  with  political  information, 
and  seems  knowing  about  the  king  of  the  French.  The  Count- 
ess is  certainly  a  handsome  woman,  but  she  puts  on  the  grand 
air  a  little  too  powerfully.  Woodcock  was  irnmenesly  taken 
with  her,  and  insisted  on  his  wife's  calling  on  her  and  asking 
her  to  dinner ;  but  I  think  Mrs.  Woodcock  turned  restive  after 
her  first  visit,  and  wouldn't  invite  her  again." 

"  Ha,  ha !     Woodcock  hath  alwayth  a  thof t  place  in  hith 


AMOS  BARTON.  37 

heart  for  a  pretty  fathe.  It'th  odd  how  he  came  to  marry 
that  plain  woman,  and  no  fortune  either." 

"  Mysteries  of  the  tender  passion, "  said  Mr.  Ely.  "  I  am 
not  initiated  yet,  you  know." 

Here  Mr.  Farquhar's  carriage  was  announced,  and  as  we 
have  not  found  his  conversation  particularly  brilliant  under 
the  stimulus  of  Mr.  Ely's  exceptional  presence,  we  will  not 
accompany  him  home  to  the  less  exciting  atmosphere  of  do- 
mestic life. 

Mr.  Ely  threw  himself  with  a  sense  of  relief  into  his  easiest 
chair,  set  his  feet  on  the  hobs,  and  in  this  attitude  of  bachelor 
enjoyment  began  to  read  Bishop  Jebb's  Memoirs. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  AM  by  no  means  sure  that  if  the  good  people  of  Milby  had 
known  the  truth  about  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  they  would  not 
have  been  considerably  disappointed  to  find  that  it  was  very 
far  from  being  as  bad  as  they  imagined.  Nice  distinctions  are 
troublesome.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  say  that  a  thing  is  black, 
than  to  discriminate  the  particular  shade  of  brown,  blue,  or 
green  to  which  it  really  belongs.  It  is  so  much  easier  to 
make  up  your  mind  that  your  neighbor  is  good  for  nothing, 
than  to  enter  into  all  the  circumstances  that  would  oblige  you 
to  modify  that  opinion. 

Besides,  think  of  all  the  virtuous  declamation,  all  the  pene- 
trating observation,  which  had  been  built  up  entirely  on  the 
fundamental  position  that  the  Countess  was  a  very  objection- 
able person  indeed,  and  which  would  be  utterly  overturned 
and  nullified  by  the  destruction  of  that  premise.  Mrs. 
Phipps,  the  banker's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Landor,  the  attorney's 
wife,  had  invested  part  of  their  reputation  for  acuteness  in  the 
supposition  that  Mr.  Bridmain  was  not  the  Countess's  brother. 
Moreover,  Miss  Phipps  was  conscious  that  if  the  Countess  was 
not  a  disreputable  person,  she,  Miss  Phipps,  had  no  compen- 
sating superiority  in  virtue  to  set  against  the  other  lady's  mani- 
fest superiority  in  personal  charms.  Miss  Phipps' s  stumpy 


38  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

figure  and  unsuccessful  attire,  instead  of  looking  down  from  a 
mount  of  virtue  with  an  aureole  round  its  head,  would  then 
be  seen  on  the  same  level  and  in  the  same  light  as  the  Count- 
ess Czerlaski's  Diana-like  form  and  well-chosen  drapery. 
Miss  Phipps,  for  her  part,  didn't  like  dressing  for  effect — she 
had  always  avoided  that  style  of  appearance  which  was  calcu- 
lated to  create  a  sensation. 

Then  what  amusing  innuendoes  of  the  Milby  gentlemen  over 
their  wine  would  have  been  entirely  frustrated  and  reduced  to 
nought,  if  you  had  told  them  that  the  Countess  had  really 
been  guilty  of  no  misdemeanors  which  demanded  her  exclusion 
from  strictly  respectable  society ;  that  her  husband  had  been 
the  veritable  Count  Czerlaski,  who  had  had  wonderful  escapes, 
as  she  said,  and  who,  as  she  did  not  say,  but  as  was  said  in 
certain  circulars  once  folded  by  her  fair  hands,  had  subse- 
quently given  dancing  lessons  in  the  metropolis;  that  Mr. 
Bridmain  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  her  half-brother, 
who,  by  unimpeached  integrity  and  industry,  had  won  a 
partnership  in  a  silk  manufactory,  and  thereby  a  moderate 
fortune,  that  enabled  him  to  retire,  as  you  see,  to  study  poli- 
tics, the  weather,  and  the  art  of  conversation  at  his  leisure. 
Mr.  Bridmain,  in  fact,  quadragenarian  bachelor  as  he  was,  felt 
extremely  well  pleased  to  receive  his  sister  in  her  widowhood, 
niiil  to  shine  in  the  reflected  light  of  her  beauty  and  title. 
I •]•.'< TV  man  who  is  not  a  monster,  a  mathematician,  or  a  mad 
philosopher,  is  the  slave  of  some  woman  or  other.  Mr.  Brid- 
main had  put  his  neck  under  the  yoke  of  his  handsome  sister, 
and  though  his  soul  was  a  very  little  one — of  the  smallest 
description  indeed — he  would  not  have  ventured  to  call  it  his 
own.  He  might  bo  slightly  recalcitrant  now  and  then,  as  is 
the  habit  of  long-eared  pachyderms,  under  the  thong  of  the 
fair  Countess's  tongue;  but  there  seemed  little  probability 
that  he  would  ever  get  his  neck  loose.  Still,  a  bachelor's 
heart  ie  an  outlying  fortress  that  some  fair  enemy  may  any  day 
take  either  by  storm  or  stratagem;  and  there  was  always  the 
possibility  that  Mr.  Bridman's  first  nuptials  might  occur  be- 
fore the  Countess  was  quite  sure  of  her  second.  As  it  was, 
however,  he  submitted  to  all  his  sister's  caprices,  never 
grumbled  because  her  dress  and  her  maid  formed  a  consider- 


AMOS  BARTON.  39 

able  item  beyond  her  own  little  income  of  sixty  pounds  per 
annum,  and  consented  to  lead  with  her  a  migratory  life,  as 
personages  on  the  debatable  ground  between  aristocracy  and 
commonalty,  instead  of  settling  in  some  spot  where  his  five 
hundred  a  year  might  have  won  him  the  definite  dignity  of  a 
parochial  magnate. 

The  Countess  had  her  views  in  choosing  a  quiet  provincial 
place  like  Milby.  After  three  years  of  widowhood,  she  had 
brought  her  feelings  to  contemplate  giving  a  successor  to  her 
lamented  Czerlaski,  whose  fine  whiskers,  fine  air,  and  romantic 
fortunes  had  won  her  heart  ten  years  ago,  when,  as  pretty 
Caroline  Bridmain,  in  the  full  bloom  of  five  and  twenty,  she 
was  governess  to  Lady  Porter's  daughters,  whom  he  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  pas  de  basque,  and  the  Lancers' 
quadrilles.  She  had  had  seven  years  of  sufficiently  happy 
matrimony  with  Czerlaski,  who  had  taken  her  to  Paris  and 
Germany,  and  introduced  her  there  to  many  of  his  old  friends 
with  large  titles  and  small  fortunes.  So  that  the  fair  Caroline 
had  had  considerable  experience  of  life,  and  had  gathered 
therefrom,  not,  indeed,  any  very  ripe  and  comprehensive  wis- 
dom, but  much  external  polish,  and  certain  practical  conclu- 
sions of  a  very  decided  kind.  One  of  these  conclusions  was, 
that  there  were  things  more  solid  in  life  than  fine  whiskers  and 
a  title,  and  that,  in  accepting  a  second  husband,  she  would  re- 
gard these  items  as  quite  subordinate  to  a  carriage  and  a  set- 
tlement. Now,  she  had  ascertained,  by  tentative  residences, 
that  the  kind  of  bite  she  was  angling  for  was  difficult  to  be 
met  with  at  watering-places,  which  were  already  preoccupied 
with  abundance  of  angling  beauties,  and  were  chiefly  stocked 
with  men  whose  whiskers  might  be  dyed,  and  whose  incomes 
were  still  more  problematic ;  so  she  had  determined  on  trying 
a  neighborhood  where  people  were  extremely  well  acquainted 
with  each  other's  affairs,  and  where  the  women  were  mostly 
ill-dressed  and  ugly.  Mr.  Bridmain's  slow  brain  had  adopted 
his  sister's  views,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  so  hand- 
some and  distinguished  as  the  Countess  must  certainly  make  a 
match  that  might  lift  himself  into  the  region  of  county  celeb- 
rities, and  give  him  at  least  a  sort  of  cousinship  to  the  quarter- 
sessions. 


40  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

All  this,  which  was  the  simple  truth,  would  have  seemed 
extremely  flat  to  the  gossips  of  Milby,  who  had  made  up  their 
minds  to  something  much  more  exciting.  There  was  nothing 
here  so  very  detestable.  It  is  true,  the  Countess  was  a  little 
vain,  a  little  ambitious,  a  little  selfish,  a  little  shallow  and 
frivolous,  a  little  given  to  white  lies. — But  who  considers  such 
slight  blemishes,  such  moral  pimples  as  these,  disqualifications 
for  entering  into  the  most  respectable  society?  Indeed,  the 
severest  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  been  perfectly  aware  that 
these  characteristics  would  have  created  no  wide  distinction 
between  the  Countess  Czerlaski  and  themselves ;  and  since  it 
was  clear  there  was  a  wide  distinction — why,  it  must  lie  in  the 
possession  of  some  vices  from  which  they  were  undeniably 
free. 

Hence  it  came  to  pass  that  Milby  respectability  refused  to 
recognize  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  in  spite  of  her  assiduous 
church-going,  and  the  deep  disgust  she  was  known  to  have  ex- 
pressed at  the  extreme  paucity  of  the  congregations  on  Ash- 
Wednesdays.  So  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had  miscalculated 
the  advantages  of  a  neighborhood  where  people  are  well  ac- 
quainted with  each  other's  private  affairs.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, you  will  imagine  how  welcome  was  the  perfect 
credence  and  admiration  she  met  with  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton. She  had  been  especially  irritated  by  Mr.  Ely's  behavior 
to  her ;  she  felt  sure  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  struck  with  her 
beauty,  that  he  quizzed  her  conversation,  and  that  he  spoke  of 
her  with  a  sneer.  A  woman  always  knows  where  she  is  utterly 
powerless,  and  shuns  a  coldly  satirical  eye  as  she  would  shun 
a  Gorgon.  And  she  was  especially  eager  for  clerical  notice 
and  friendship,  not  merely  because  that  is  quite  the  most  re- 
spectable countenance  to  be  obtained  in  society,  but  because 
she  really  cared  about  religious  matters,  and  had  an  uneasy 
sense  that  she  was  not  altogether  safe  in  that  quarter.  She 
had  serious  intentions  of  becoming  quite  pious — without  any 
reserves — when  she  had  once  got  her  carriage  and  settlement. 
Let  us  do  this  one  sly  trick,  says  Ulysses  to  Neoptolemus,  and 
we  will  be  perfectly  honest  ever  after — 

dXA'  fi6v  yap  TOI  Krijfia  Tt?$  VIK.TIS  l.af$elv, 
•  dinatot  6'  av6if  eKfav 


AMOS  BARTON.  41 

The  Countess  did  not  quote  Sophocles,  but  she  said  to  herself : 
"  Only  this  little  bit  of  pretence  and  vanity,  and  then  I  will 
be  quite  good,  and  make  myself  quite  safe  for  another  world." 

And  as  she  had  by  no  means  such  fine  taste  and  insight  in 
theological  teaching  as  in  costume,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton 
seemed  to  her  a  man  not  only  of  learning — that  is  always  un- 
derstood with  a  clergyman — but  of  much  power  as  a  spiritual 
director.  As  for  Milly,  the  Countess  really  loved  her  as  well 
as  the  preoccupied  state  of  her  affections  would  allow.  For 
you  have  already  perceived  that  there  was  one  being  to  whom 
the  Countess  was  absorbingly  devoted,  and  to  whose  desires 
she  made  everything  else  subservient — namely,  Caroline  Czer- 
laski,  nee  Bridmain. 

Thus  there  was  really  not  much  affectation  in  her  sweet 
speeches  and  attentions  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton.  Still  their 
friendship  by  no  means  adequately  represented  the  object  she 
had  in  view  when  she  came  to  Milby,  and  it  had  been  for 
some  time  clear  to  her  that  she  must  suggest  a  new  change  of 
residence  to  her  brother. 

The  thing  we  look  forward  to  often  comes  to  pass,  but  never 
precisely  in  the  way  we  have  imagined  to  ourselves.  The 
Countess  did  actually  leave  Camp  Villa  before  many  months 
were  past,  but  under  circumstances  which  had  not  at  all  en- 
tered into  her  contemplation. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  whose  sad  fortunes  I  have  under- 
taken to  relate,  was,  you  perceive,  in  no  respect  an  ideal  or 
exceptional  character ;  and  perhaps  I  am  doing  a  bold  thing  to 
bespeak  your  sympathy  on  behalf  of  a  man  who  was  so  very 
far  from  remarkable, — a  man  whose  virtues  were  not  heroic, 
and  who  had  no  undetected  crime  within  his  breast ;  who  had 
not  the  slightest  mystery  hanging  about  him,  but  was  palpably 
and  unmistakably  commonplace ;  who  was  not  even  in  love, 
but  had  had  that  complaint  favorably  many  years  ago.  "  An 
utterly  uninteresting  character !  "  I  think  I  hear  a  lady  reader 


42  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

exclaim — Mrs.  Farthingale,  for  example,  who  prefers  the  ideal 
in  fiction;  to  whom  tragedy  means  ermine  tippets,  adultery, 
and  murder ;  and  comedy,  the  adventures  of  some  personage 
who  is  quite  a  "character." 

But,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  so  very  large  a  majority  of  your 
fellow-countrymen  that  are  of  this  insignificant  stamp.  At 
least  eighty  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  adult  male  fellow-Britons 
returned  in  the  last  census  are  neither  extraordinarily  silly, 
nor  extraordinarily  wicked,  nor  extraordinarily  wise;  their 
eyes  are  neither  deep  and  liquid  with  sentiment  nor  sparkling 
with  suppressed  witticisms ;  they  have  probably  had  no  hair- 
breadth escapes  or  thrilling  adventures;  their  brains  are  cer- 
tainly not  pregnant  with  genius,  and  their  passions  have  not 
manifested  themselves  at  all  after  the  fashion  of  a  volcano. 
They  are  simply  men  of  complexions  more  or  less  muddy, 
whose  conversation  is  more  or  less  bald  and  disjointed.  Yet 
these  commonplace  people — many  of  them — bear  a  conscience, 
and  have  felt  the  sublime  prompting  to  do  the  painful  right; 
they  have  their  unspoken  sorrows,  and  their  sacred  joys ;  their 
hearts  have  perhaps  gone  out  toward  their  first-born,  and  they 
have  mourned  over  the  irreclaimable  dead.  Nay,  is  there  not 
a  pathos  in  their  very  insignificance — in  our  comparison  of 
their  dim  and  narrow  existence  with  the  glorious  possibilities 
of  that  human  nature  which  they  share? 

Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeakably  if  you  would 
learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  the  pathos,  the 
-tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  experience  of  a  human 
soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  gray  eyes,  and  that  speaks  in 
a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones.  In  that  case,  I  should  have 
no  fear  of  your  not  caring  to  know  what  farther  befell  the  Kev. 
Amos  Barton,  or  of  your  thinking  the  homely  details  I  have 
to  tell  at  all  beneath  your  attention.  As  it  is,  you  can,  if  you 
please,  decline  to  pursue  my  story  farther;  and  you  will  easily 
find  reading  more  to  your  taste,  since  I  learn  from  the  news- 
papers that  many  remarkable  novels,  full  of  striking  situa- 
tions, thrilling  incidents,  and  eloquent  writing,  have  appeared 
only  within  the  last  season. 

Meanwhile,  readers  who  have  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in 
the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  and  his  wife  will  be  glad  to  learn  that 


AMOS  BARTON.  43 

Mr.  Oldinport  lent  the  twenty  pounds.  But  twenty  pounds 
are  soon  exhausted  when  twelve  are  due  as  back  payment  to 
the  butcher,  and  when  the  possession  of  eight  extra  sovereigns 
in  February  weather  is  an  irresistible  temptation  to  order  a 
new  greatcoat.  And  though  Mr.  Bridmain  so  far  departed 
from  the  necessary  economy  entailed  on  him  by  the  Countess's 
elegant  toilet  and  expensive  maid,  as  to  choose  a  handsome 
black  silk,  stiff,  as  his  experienced  eye  discerned,  with  the 
genuine  strength  of  its  own  texture,  and  not  with  the  factitious 
strength  of  gum,  and  present  it  to  Mrs.  Barton,  in  retrieval  of 
the  accident  that  had  "occurred  at  his  table,  yet,  dear  me — as 
every  husband  has  heard — what  is  the  present  of  a  gown  when 
you  are  deficiently  furnished  with  the  et-ceteras  of  apparel, 
and  when,  moreover,  there  are  six  children  whose  wear  and 
tear  of  clothes  is  something  incredible  to  the  non-maternal 
mind? 

Indeed,  the  equation  of  income  and  expenditure  was  offering 
new  and  constantly  accumulating  difficulties  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Barton;  for  shortly  after  the  birth  of  little  Walter,  Milly 's 
aunt,  who  had  lived  with  her  ever  since  her  marriage,  had 
withdrawn  herself,  her  furniture,  and  her  yearly  income,  to 
the  household  of  another  niece;  prompted  to  that  step,  very 
probably,  by  a  slight  "  tiff  "  with  the  Rev.  Amos,  which  oc- 
curred while  Milly  was  upstairs,  and  proved  one  too  many  for 
the  elderly  lady's  patience  and  magnanimity.  Mr.  Barton's 
temper  was  a  little  warm,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  elderly 
maiden  ladies  are  known  to  be  susceptible;  so  we  will  not 
suppose  that  all  the  blame  lay  on  his  side — the  less  so,  as  he 
had  every  motive  for  humoring  an  inmate  whose  presence  kept 
the  wolf  from  the  door.  It  was  now  nearly  a  year  since  Miss 
Jackson's  departure,  and,  to  a  fine  ear,  the  howl  of  the  wolf 
was  audibly  approaching. 

It  was  a  sad  thing,  too,  that  when  the  last  snow  had  melted, 
when  the  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  were  coming  up  in  the 
garden,  and  the  old  church  was  already  half  pulled  down, 
Milly  had  an  illness  which  made  her  lips  look  pale,  and  ren- 
dered it  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  not  exert  herself 
for  some  time.  Mr.  Brand,  the  Shepperton  doctor  so  obnox- 
ious to  Mr.  Pilgrim,  ordered  her  to  drink  port-wine,  and  it 


44  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

was  quite  necessary  to  have  a  charwoman  very  often,  to  assist 
Nanny  in  all  the  extra  work  that  fell  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Hackit,  who  hardly  ever  paid  a  visit  to  any  one  but 
her  oldest  and  nearest  neighbor,  Mrs.  Patten,  now  took  the 
unusual  step  of  calling  at  the  vicarage  one  morning ;  and  the 
tears  came  into  her  unsentimental  eyes  as  she  saw  Milly  seated 
pale  and  feeble  in  the  parlor,  unable  to  persevere  in  sewing 
the  pinafore  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her.  Little  Dickey, 
a  boisterous  boy  of  five,  with  large  pink  cheeks  and  sturdy 
legs,  was  having  his  turn  to  sit  with  Mamma,  and  was  squat- 
ting quiet  as  a  mouse  at  her  knee,  holding  her  soft  white  hand 
between  his  little  red  black -nailed  fists.  He  was  a  boy  whom 
Mrs.  Hackit,  in  a  severe  mood,  had  pronounced  "  stocky  "  (a 
word  that  etymologically,  in  all  probability,  conveys  some  al- 
lusion to  an  instrument  of  punishment  for  the  refractory) ;  but 
seeing  him  thus  subdued  into  goodness,  she  smiled  at  him  with 
her  kindest  smile,  and,  stooping  down,  suggested  a  kiss — 
a  favor  which  Dickey  resolutely  declined. 

"  Now  do  you  take  nourishing  things  enough?  "  was  one  of 
Mrs.  Hackit' s  first  questions,  and  Milly  endeavored  to  make 
it  appear  that  no  woman  was  ever  so  much  in  danger  of  being 
over-fed  and  led  into  self-indulgent  habits  as  herself.  But 
Mrs.  Hackit  gathered  one  fact  from  her  replies,  namely,  that 
Mr.  Brand  had  ordered  port-wine. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  forward,  Dickey  had  been 
furtively  stroking  and  kissing  the  soft  white  hand ;  so  that  at 
last,  when  a  pause  came,  his  mother  said,  smilingly :  "  Why 
are  you  kissing  my  hand,  Dickey  ?  " 

"  It  id  to  yovely, "  answered  Dickey,  who,  you  observe,  was 
decidedly  backward  in  his  pronunciation. 

Mrs.  Hackit  remembered  this  little  scene  in  after  days,  and 
thought  with  peculiar  tenderness  and  pity  of  the  "  stocky 
boy." 

The  next  day  there  came  a  hamper  with  Mrs.  Hackit' s  re- 
spects; and  on  being  opened  it  was  found  to  contain  half  a 
dozen  of  port-wine  and  two  couples  of  fowls.  Mrs.  Farquhar, 
too,  was  very  kind;  insisted  on  Mrs.  Barton's  rejecting  all  ar- 
rowroot but  hers,  which  was  genuine  Indian,  and  carried  away 
Sophy  and  Fred  to  stay  with  her  a  fortnight.  These  and  other 


AMOS  BARTON.  45 

good-natured  attentions  made  the  trouble  of  Milly's  illness 
more  bearable;  but  they  could  not  prevent  it  from  swelling 
expenses,  and  Mr.  Barton  began  to  have  serious  thoughts  of 
representing  his  case  to  a  certain  charity  for  the  relief  of  needy 
curates. 

Altogether,  as  matters  stood  in  Shepperton,  the  parishioners 
were  more  likely  to  have  a  strong  sense  that  the  clergyman 
needed  their  material  aid,  than  that  they  needed  his  spiritual 
aid — not  the  best  state  of  things  in  this  age  and  country, 
where  faith  in  men  solely  on  the  ground  of  their  spiritual  gifts 
has  considerably  diminished,  and  especially  unfavorable  to  the 
influence  of  the  Kev.  Amos,  whose  spiritual  gifts  would  not 
have  had  a  very  commanding  power  even  in  an  age  of  faith. 

But,  you  ask,  did  not  the  Countess  Czerlaski  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  her  friends  all  this  time?  To  be  sure  she  did.  She 
was  indefatigable  in  visiting  her  "  sweet  Milly, "  and  sitting 
with  her  for  hours  together.  It  may  seem  remarkable  to  you 
that  she  neither  thought  of  taking  away  any  of  the  children, 
nor  of  providing  for  any  of  Milly's  probable  wants;  but  ladies 
of  rank  and  of  luxurious  habits,  you  know,  cannot  be  expected 
to  surmise  the  details  of  poverty.  She  put  a  great  deal  of  eau- 
de-Cologne  on  Mrs.  Barton's  pocket-handkerchief,  rearranged 
her  pillow  and  footstool,  kissed  her  cheeks,  wrapped  her  in  a 
soft  warm  shawl  from  her  own  shoulders,  and  amused  her  with 
stories  of  the  life  she  had  seen  abroad.  When  Mr.  Barton 
joined  them  she  talked  of  Tractarianism,  of  her  determination 
not  to  re-enter  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life,  and  of  her  anxiety 
to  see  him  in  a  sphere  large  enough  for  his  talents.  Milly 
thought  her  sprightliness  and  affectionate  warmth  quite  charm- 
ing, and  was  very  fond  of  her;  while  the  Rev.  Amos  had  a 
vague  consciousness  that  he  had  risen  into  aristocratic  life, 
and  only  associated  with  his  middle-class  parishioners  in  a 
pastoral  and  parenthetic  manner. 

However,  as  the  days  brightened,  Milly's  cheeks  and  lips 
brightened  too ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  was  almost  as  active 
as  ever,  though  watchful  eyes  might  have  seen  that  activity 
was  not  easy  to  her.  Mrs.  Hackit's  eyes  were  of  that  kind, 
and  one  day,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  had  been  dining  with 
her  for  the  first  time  since  Milly' s  illness,  she  observed  to  her 


46  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

husband:  "That  poor  thing's  dreadful  weak  an'  dilicate;  she 
won't  stan'  havin'  many  more  children." 

Mr.  Barton,  meanwhile,  had  been  indefatigable  in  his  voca- 
tion. He  had  preached  two  extemporary  sermons  every  Sun- 
day at  the  workhouse,  where  a  room  had  been  fitted  up  for 
divine  service,  pending  the  alterations  in  the  church ;  and  had 
walked  the  same  evening  to  a  cottage  at  one  or  other  extremity 
of  his  parish  to  deliver  another  sermon,  still  more  extemporary, 
in  an  atmosphere  impregnated  with  spring  flowers  and  perspi- 
ration. After  all  these  labors  you  will  easily  conceive  that  he 
was  considerably  exhausted  by  half -past  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  that  a  supper  at  a  friendly  parishioner's,  with  a 
glass,  or  even  two  glasses,  of  brandy-and-water  after  it,  was  a 
welcome  re-enforcement.  Mr.  Barton  was  not  at  all  an  ascetic ; 
he  thought  the  benefits  of  fasting  were  entirely  confined  to  the 
Old  Testament  dispensation ;  he  was  fond  of  relaxing  himself 
with  a  little  gossip ;  indeed,  Miss  Bond,  and  other  ladies  of 
enthusiastic  views,  sometimes  regretted  that  Mr.  Barton  did 
not  more  uninterruptedly  exhibit  a  superiority  to  the  things  of 
the  flesh.  Thin  ladies,  who  take  little  exercise,  and  whose 
livers  are  not  strong  enough  to  bear  stimulants,  are  so  extremely 
critical  about  one's  personal  habits!  And,  after  all,  the  Rev. 
Amos  never  came  near  the  borders  of  a  vice.  His  very  faults 
were  middling — he  was  not  very  ungrammatical.  It  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  be  superlative  in  anything;  unless,  indeed,  he 
was  superlatively  middling,  the  quintessential  extract  of  medi- 
ocrity. If  there  was  any  one  point  on  which  he  showed  an 
inclination  to  be  excessive,  it  was  confidence  in  his  own 
shrewdness  and  ability  in  practical  matters,  so  that  he  was 
very  full  of  plans  which  were  something  like  his  moves  in 
chess — admirably  well  calculated,  supposing  the  state  of  the 
case  were  otherwise.  For  example,  that  notable  plan  of  intro- 
ducing anti-Dissenting  books  into  his  Lending  Library  did  not 
in  the  least  appear  to  have  bruised  the  head  of  Dissent,  though 
it  had  certainly  made  Dissent  strongly  inclined  to  bite  the 
Kev.  Amos's  heel.  Again,  he  vexed  the  souls  of  his  church- 
wardens and  influential  parishioners  by  his  fertile  suggestive- 
ness  as  to  what  it  would  be  well  for  them  to  do  in  the  matter 
of  the  church  repairs,  and  other  ecclesiastical  secularities. 


AMOS  BARTON.  47 

"  I  never  saw  the  like  to  parsons, "  Mr.  Hackit  said  one  day 
in  conversation  with  his  brother  church-warden,  Mr.  Bond ; 
"they're  al'ys  for  meddling  with  business,  and  they  know  no 
more  about  it  than  my  black  filly." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Bond,  "they're  too  high  learnt  to  have 
much  common  sense." 

"  Well, "'  remarked  Mr.  Hackit,  in  a  modest  and  dubious 
tone,  as  if  throwing  out  a  hypothesis  which  might  be  consid- 
ered bold,  "  I  should  say  that's  a  bad  sort  of  eddication  as 
makes  folks  unreasonable." 

So  that,  you  perceive,  Mr.  Barton's  popularity  was  in  that 
precarious  condition,  in  that  toppling  and  contingent  state,  in 
whic-h  a  very  slight  push  from  a  malignant  destiny  would  ut- 
terly upset  it.  That  push  was  not  long  in  being  given,  as  you 
shall  hear. 

One  fine  May  morning,  when  Amos  was  out  on  his  parochial 
visits,  and  the  sunlight  was  streaming  through  the  bow-win- 
dow of  the  sitting-room,  where  Milly  was  seated  at  her  sewing, 
occasionally  looking  up  to  glance  at  the  children  playing  in 
the  garden,  there  came  a  loud  rap  at  the  door,  which  she  at 
once  recognized  as  the  Countess's,  and  that  well-dressed  lady 
presently  entered  the  sitting-room,  with  her  veil  drawn  over 
her  face.  Milly  was  not  at  all  surprised  or  sorry  to  see  her ; 
but  when  the  Countess  threw  up  her  veil  and  showed  that  her 
eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  she  was  both  surprised  and  sorry. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter,  dear  Caroline?" 

Caroline  threw  down  Jet,  who  gave  a  little  yelp ;  then  she 
threw  her  arms  round  Milly's  neck  and  began  to  sob;  then  she 
threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  begged  for  a  glass  of  water; 
then  she  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl ;  and  by  the  time 
Milly's  imagination  had  exhausted  itself  in  conjuring  up  calam- 
ities, she  said: 

"Dear,  how  shall  I  tell  you?  I  am  the  most  wretched 
woman.  To  be  deceived  by  a  brother  to  whom  I  have  been  so 
devoted — to  see  him  degrading  himself — giving  himself  utterly 
to  the  dogs !  " 

"  What  can  it  be?  "  said  Milly,  who  began  to  picture  to  her- 
self the  sober  Mr.  Bridmain  taking  to  brandy  and  betting. 

"  He  is  going  to  be  married — to  marry  my  own  maid,  that 


48  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

deceitful  Alice,  to  whom  I  have  been  the  most  indulgent  mis- 
tress. Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  disgraceful?  so  mor- 
tifying? so  disreputable?" 

"And  has  he  only  just  told  you  of  it?"  said  Milly,  who, 
having  really  heard  of  worse  conduct,  even  in  her  innocent 
life,  avoided  a  direct  answer. 

"  Told  me  of  it !  he  had  not  even  the  grace  to  do  that.  I 
went  into  the  dining-room  suddenly  and  found  him  kissing 
her — disgusting  at  his  time  of  life,  is  it  not? — and  when  I  re- 
proved her  for  allowing  such  liberties,  she  turned  round  sau- 
cily, and  said  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  my  brother, 
and  she  saw  no  shame  in  allowing  him  to  kiss  her.  Edmund 
is  a  miserable  coward,  you  know,  and  looked  frightened ;  but 
when  she  asked  him  to  say  whether  it  was  not  so,  he  tried  to 
summon  up  courage  and  say  yes.  I  left  the  room  in  disgust, 
and  this  morning  I  have  been  questioning  Edmund,  and  find 
that  he  is  bent  on  marrying  this  woman,  and  that  he  has  been 
putting  off  telling  me — because  he  was  ashamed  of  himself,  I 
suppose.  I  couldn't  possibly  stay  in  the  house  after  this,  with 
my  own  maid  turned  mistress.  And  now,  Milly,  I  am  come 
to  throw  myself  on  your  charity  for  a  week  or  two.  Will  you 
take  me  in?  " 

"  That  we  will, "  said  Milly,  "  if  you  will  only  put  up  with 
our  poor  rooms  and  way  of  living.  It  will  be  delightful  to 
have  you !  " 

"  It  will  soothe  me  to  be  with  you  and  Mr.  Barton  a  little 
while.  I  feel  quite  unable  to  go  among  my  other  friends  just 
at  present.  What  those  two  wretched  people  will  do  I  don't 
know — leave  the  neighborhood  at  once,  I  hope.  I  entreated 
my  brother  to  do  so  before  he  disgraced  himself. " 

When  Amos  came  home,  he  joined  his  cordial  welcome  and 
sympathy  to  Milly's.  By  and  by  the  Countess's  formidable 
boxes,  which  she  had  carefully  packed  before  her  indignation 
drove  her  away  from  Camp  Villa,  arrived  at  the  vicarage,  and 
were  deposited  in  the  spare  bedroom,  and  in  two  closets,  not 
spare,  which  Milly  emptied  for  their  reception.  A  week  after- 
ward the  excellent  apartments  at  Camp  Villa,  comprising  din- 
ing- and  drawing-rooms,  three  bedrooms,  and  a  dressing-room, 
were  again  to  let,  and  Mr.  Bridmain's  sudden  departure,  to- 


AMOS  BARTON.  49 

gether  with  the  Countess  Czerlaski's  installation  as  a  visitor 
at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  became  a  topic  of  general  conversation 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  keen-sighted  virtue  of  Milby  and 
Shepperton  saw  in  all  this  a  confirmation  of  its  worst  suspicions, 
and  pitied  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton's  gullibility. 

But  when  week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  slipped 
by  without  witnessing  the  Countess's  departure — when  sum- 
mer and  harvest  had  fled,  and  still  left  her  behind  them  occu- 
pying the  spare  bedroom  and  the  closets,  and  also  a  large  pro- 
portion of  Mrs.  Barton's  time  and  attention,  new  surmises  of 
a  very  evil  kind  were  added  to  the  old  rumors,  and  began  to 
take  the  form  of  settled  convictions  in  the  minds  even  of  Mr. 
Barton's  most  friendly  parishioners. 

And  now,  here  is  an  opportunity  for  an  accomplished  writer 
to  apostrophize  calumny,  to  quote  Virgil,  and  to  show  that  he 
is  acquainted  with  the  most  ingenious  things  which  have  been 
said  on  that  subject  in  polite  literature. 

But  what  is  opportunity  to  the  man  who  can't  use  it?  An 
unfecuudated  egg,  which  the  waves  of  time  wash  away  into 
nonentity.  So,  as  my  memory  is  ill-furnished,  and  my  note- 
book still  worse,  I  am  unable  to  show  myself  either  erudite  or 
eloquent  apropos  of  the  calumny  whereof  the  Rev.  Amos  Bar- 
ton was  the  victim.  I  can  only  ask  my  reader, — did  you  ever 
upset  your  ink-bottle,  and  watch,  in  helpless  agony,  the  rapid 
spread  of  Stygian  blackness  over  your  fair  manuscript  or 
fairer  table-cover?  With  a  like  inky  swiftness  did  gossip  now 
blacken  the  reputation  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  causing  the 
unfriendly  to  scorn  and  even  the  friendly  to  stand  aloof,  at  a 
time  when  difficulties  of  another  kind  were  fast  thickening 
around  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OXE  November  morning,  at  least  six  months  after  the 
Countess  Czerlaski  had  taken  up  her  residence  at  the  vicarage, 
Mrs.  Hackit  heard  that  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Patten  had  an  attack 
of  her  old  complaint,  vaguely  called  "  the  spasms. "  Accord- 
ingly, about  eleven  o'clock,  she  put  on  her  velvet  bonnet  and 


50  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

cloth  cloak,  with  a  long  boa  and  muff  large  enough  to  stow  a 
prize  baby  in ;  for  Mrs.  Hackit  regulated  her  costume  by  the 
calendar,  and  brought  out  her  furs  on  the  first  of  November, 
whatever  might  be  the  temperature.  She  was  not  a  woman 
weakly  to  accommodate  herself  to  shilly-shally  proceedings. 
If  the  season  didn't  know  what  it  ought  to  do,  Mrs.  Hackit 
did.  In  her  best  days  it  was  always  sharp  weather  at  "  Gun- 
powder Plot,"  and  she  didn't  like  new  fashions. 

And  this  morning  the  weather  was  very  rationally  in  accord- 
ance with  her  costume,  for  as  she  made  her  way  through  the 
fields  to  Cross  Farm,  the  yellow  leaves  on  the  hedge-girt  elms, 
which  showed  bright  and  golden  against  the  low-hanging  pur- 
ple clouds,  were  being  scattered  across  the  grassy  path  by  the 
coldest  of  November  winds.  "Ah,"  Mrs.  Hackit  thought  to 
herself,  "  I  dare  say  we  shall  have  a  sharp  pinch  this  winter, 
and  if  we  do,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  takes  the  old  lady  off. 
They  say  a  green  Yule  makes  a  fat  churchyard ;  but  so  does  a 
white  Yule  too,  for  that  matter.  When  the  stool's  rotten 
enough,  no  matter  who  sits  on  it." 

However,  on  her  arrival  at  Cross  Farm,  the  prospect  of 
Mrs.  Patten's  decease  was  again  thrown  into  the  dim  distance 
in  her  imagination,  for  Miss  Janet  Gibbs  met  her  with  the 
news  that  Mrs.  Patten  was  much  better,  and  led  her,  witho\it 
any  preliminary  announcement,  to  the  old  lady's  bedroom. 
Janet  had  scarcely  reached  the  end  of  her  circiimstantial  nar- 
rative how  the  attack  came  on  and  what  were  her  aunt's  sen- 
sations— a  narrative  to  which  Mrs.  Patten,  in  her  neatly  plaited 
nightcap,  seemed  to  listen  with  a  contemptuous  resignation  to 
her  niece's  historical  inaccuracy,  contenting  herself  with  occa- 
sionally confounding  Janet  by  a  shake  of  the  head — when  the 
clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  yard  pavement  announced 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  large,  top-booted  person 
presently  made  its  appearance  upstairs.  He  found  Mrs. 
Patten  going  on  so  well  that  there  was  no  need  to  look  sol- 
emn. He  might  glide  from  condolence  into  gossip  without 
offence,  and  the  temptation  of  having  Mrs.  Hackit' s  ear  was 
irresistible. 

"  What  a  disgraceful  business  this  is  turning  out  of  your 
parson' s, "  was  the  remark  with  which  he  made  this  agreeable 


AMOS  BARTON.  61 

transition,  throwing  himself  back  in  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  been  leaning  toward  the  patient. 

"  Eh,  dear  me !  "  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  "  disgraceful  enough. 
I  stuck  to  Mr.  Barton  as  long  as  I  could,  for  his  wife's  sake; 
but  I  can't  countenance  such  goings-on.  It's  hateful  to  see 
that  woman  coming  with  'em  to  service  of  a  Sunday,  and  if 
Mr.  Hackit  wasn't  church- warden  and  I  didn't  think  it  wrong 
to  forsake  one's  own  parish,  I  should  go  to  Knebley  Church. 
There's  a  many  parish'ners  as  do." 

"  I  used  to  think  Barton  was  only  a  fool, "  observed  Mr.  Pil- 
grim, in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  was  conscious  of  having 
been  weakly  charitable.  "  I  thought  he  was  imposed  upon 
and  led  away  by  those  people  when  they  first  came.  But 
that's  impossible  now." 

"Oh,  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose  in  your  face,"  said  Mrs. 
Hackit,  unreflectingly,  not  perceiving  the  equivoque  in  her 
comparison — "  comin'  to  Milby,  like  a  sparrow  perchin'  on  a 
bough,  as  I  may  say,  with  her  brother,  as  she  called  him ;  and 
then  all  on  a  sudden  the  brother  goes  off  with  himself,  and  she 
throws  herself  on  the  Bartons.  Though  what  could  make  her 
take  up  with  a  poor  notomise  of  a  parson,  as  hasn't  got  enough 
to  keep  wife  and  children,  there's  One  above  knows — 1  don't." 

"Mr.  Barton  may  have  attractions  we  don't  know  of,"  said 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  piqued  himself  on  a  talent  for  sarcasm. 
"  The  Countess  has  no  maid  now,  and  they  say  Mr.  Barton  is 
handy  in  assisting  at  her  toilet— laces  her  boots,  and  so  forth." 

"  Tilet,  be  fiddled !  "  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  with  indignant  bold- 
ness of  metaphor;  "an'  there's  that  poor  thing  a-sewing  her 
fingers  to  the  bone  for  them  children — an'  another  comin'  on. 
What  she  must  have  to  go  through !  It  goes  to  my  heart  to 
turn  my  back  on  her.  But  she's  i'  the  wrong  to  let  herself  be 
put  upon  i'  that  manner." 

"  Ah !  I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Farquhar  about  that  the  other 
day.  She  said,  '  I  think  Mrs.  Barton  a  v-e-r-y  w-e-a-k 
w-o-m-a-n.' '  (Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  this  quotation  with  slow 
emphasis,  as  if  he  thought  Mrs.  Farquhar  had  uttered  a  re- 
markable sentiment.)  "  They  find  it  impossible  to  invite  her 
to  their  house  while  she  has  that  equivocal  person  staying  with 
her." 


52  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Well!"  remarked  Miss  Gibbs,  "if  I  was  a  wife,  nothing 
should  induce  me  to  bear  what  Mrs.  Barton  does." 

"  Yes,  it's  fine  talking,  said  Mrs.  Patten,  from  her  pillow ; 
"  old  maids'  husbands  are  al'ys  well  managed.  If  you  was  a 
wife,  you'd  be  as  foolish  as  your  betters,  belike." 

"  All  my  wonder  is, "  observed  Mrs.  Hackit,  "  how  the  Bar- 
tons make  both  ends  meet.  You  may  depend  on  it  she's  got 
nothing  to  give  'em;  for  I  understand  as  he's  been  haviu' 
money  from,  some  clergy  charity.  They  said  at  fust  as  she 
stuffed  Mr.  Barton  wi'  notions  about  her  writing  to  the 
Chancellor  an'  her  fine  friends,  to  give  him  a  living.  How- 
iver,  I  don't  know  what's  true  an'  what's  false.  Mr. 
Barton  keeps  away  from  our  house  now,  for  I  gave  him  a 
bit  o'  my  mind  one  day.  Maybe  he's  ashamed  of  himself. 
He  seems  to  me  to  look  dreadful  thin  an'  harassed  of  a 
Sunday." 

"Oh,  he  must  be  aware  he's  getting  into  bad  odor  every- 
where. The  clergy  are  quite  disgusted  with  his  folly.  They 
say  Carpe  would  be  glad  to  get  Barton  out  of  the  curacy  if  he 
could;  but  he  can't  do  that  without  coming  to  Shepperton 
himself,  as  Barton's  a  licensed  curate;  and  he  wouldn't  like 
that,  I  suppose." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Patten  showed  signs  of  uneasiness, 
which  recalled  Mr.  Pilgrim  to  professional  attentions;  and 
Mrs.  Hackit,  observing  that  it  was  Thursday,  and  she  must 
see  after  the  butter,  said  good-by,  promising  to  look  in  again 
soon,  and  bring  her  knitting. 

This  Thursday,  by  the  by,  is  the  first  in  the  month — the  day 
on  which  the  Clerical  Meeting  is  held  at  Milby  Vicarage;  and 
as  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  has  reasons  for  not  attending,  he 
will  very  likely  be  a  subject  of  conversation  amongst  his  clerical 
brethren.  Suppose  we  go  there  and  hear  whether  Mr.  Pilgrim 
has  reported  their  opinion  correctly. 

There  is  not  a  numerous  party  to-day,  for  it  is  a  season  of 
sore  throats  and  catarrhs ;  so  that  the  exegetical  and  theolog- 
ical discussions,  which  are  the  preliminary  of  dining,  have  not 
been  quite  so  spirited  as  usual ;  and  although  a  question  rela- 
tive to  the  Epistle  of  Jude  has  not  been  quite  cleared  up,  the 
striking  of  six  by  the  church  clock,  and  the  simultaneous  an- 


AMOS  BARTON.  63 

nouncement  of  dinner,  are  sounds  that  no  one  feels  to  be  im- 
portunate. 

Pleasant  (when  one  is  not  in  the  least  bilious)  to  enter  a 
comfortable  dining-room,  where  the  closely  drawn  red  curtains 
glow  with  the  double  light  of  fire  and  candle,  where  glass  and 
silver  are  glittering  on  the  pure  damask,  and  a  soup-tureen 
gives  a  hint  of  the  fragrance  that  will  presently  rush  out  to 
inundate  your  hungry  senses,  and  prepare  them,  by  the  deli- 
cate visitation  of  atoms,  for  the  keen  gusto  of  ampler  contact! 
Especially  if  you  have  confidence  in  the  dinner-giving  capacity 
of  your  host — if  you  know  that  he  is  not  a  man  who  entertains 
grovelling  views  of  eating  and  drinking  as  a  mere  satisfaction 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  and,  dead  to  all  the  finer  influences  of 
the  palate,  expects  his  guests  to  be  brilliant  on  ill-flavored 
gravies  and  the  cheapest  Marsala.  Mr.  Ely  was  particularly 
worthy  of  such  confidence,  and  his  virtues  as  an  Amphitryon 
had  probably  contributed  quite  as  much  as  the  central  situa: 
tion  of  Milby  to  the  selection  of  his  house  as  a  clerical  rendez- 
vous. He  looks  particularly  graceful  at  the  head  of  his  table, 
and,  indeed,  on  all  occasions  where  he  acts  as  president  or 
moderator :  he  is  a  man  who  seems  to  listen  well,  and  is  an 
excellent  amalgam  of  dissimilar  ingredients. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  table,  as  "Vice,"  sits  Mr.  Fellowes, 
rector  and  magistrate,  a  man  of  imposing  appearance,  with  a 
mellifluous  voice  and  the  readiest  of  tongues.  Mr.  Fellowes 
once  obtained  a  living  by  the  persuasive  charms  of  his  conver- 
sation, and  the  fluency  with  which  he  interpreted  the  opinions 
of  an  obese  and  stammering  baronet,  so  as  to  give  that  elderly 
gentleman  a  very  pleasing  perception  of  his  own  wisdom.  Mr. 
Fellowes  is  a  very  successful  man,  and  has  the  highest  charac- 
ter everywhere  except  in  his  own  parish,  where,  doubtless  be- 
cause his  parishioners  happen  to  be  quarrelsome  people,  he  is 
always  at  fierce  feud  with  a  farmer  or  two,  a  colliery  proprie- 
tor, a  grocer  who  was  once  church-warden,  and  a  tailor  who 
formerly  officiated  as  clerk. 

At  Mr.  Ely' s  right  hand  you  see  a  very  small  man  with  a 
sallow  and  somewhat  puffy  face,  whose  hair  is  brushed  straight 
up,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  giving  him  a  height  some- 
what less  disproportionate  to  his  sense  of  his  own  importance 


54  SCENES   OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

than  the  measure  of  five  feet  three  accorded  him  by  an  over- 
sight of  nature.  This  is  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke,  a  very  dys- 
peptic and  evangelical  man,  who  takes  the  gloomiest  view  of 
mankind  and  their  prospects,  and  thinks  the  immense  sale  of 
the  "  Pickwick  Papers, "  recently  completed,  one  of  the  strong- 
est proofs  of  original  sin.  Unfortunately,  though  Mr.  Duke 
was  not  burdened  with  a  family,  his  yearly  expenditure  was 
apt  considerably  to  exceed  his  income;  and  the  unpleasant  cir- 
cumstances resulting  from  this,  together  with  heavy  meat- 
breakfasts,  may  probably  have  contributed  to  his  desponding 
views  of  the  world  generally. 

Next  to  him  is  seated  Mr.  Furness,  a  tall  young  man,  with 
blond  hair  and  whiskers,  who  was  plucked  at  Cambridge  en- 
tirely owing  to  his  genius ;  at  least  I  know  that  he  soon  after- 
ward published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  were  considered 
remarkably  beautiful  by  many  young  ladies  of  his  acquaintance. 
Mr.  Furness  preached  his  own  sermons,  as  any  one  of  tolerable 
critical  acumen  might  have  certified  by  comparing  them  with 
his  poems :  in  both,  there  was  an  exuberance  of  metaphor  and 
simile  entirely  original,  and  not  in  the  least  borrowed  from  any 
resemblance  in  the  things  compared. 

On  Mr.  Furness' s  left  you  see  Mr.  Pugh,  another  young 
curate,  of  much  less  marked  characteristics.  He  had  not  pub- 
lished any  poems;  he  had  not  even  been  plucked ;  he  had  neat 
black  whiskers  and  a  pale  complexion;  read  prayers  and  a 
sermon  twice  every  Sunday,  and  might  be  seen  any  day  sally- 
ing forth  on  his  parochial  duties  in  a  white  tie,  a  well-brushed 
hat,  a  perfect  suit  of  black,  and  well-polished  boots — an  equip- 
ment which  he  probably  supposed  hieroglyphically  to  represent 
the  spirit  of  Christianity  to  the  parishioners  of  Whittlecombe. 

Mr.  Pugh's  vis-a-vis  is  the  Rev.  Martin  Cleves,  a  man  about 
forty — middle-sized,  broad-shouldered,  with  a  negligently  tied 
cravat,  large  irregular  features,  and  a  large  head  thickly  cov- 
ered with  lanky  brown  hair.  To  a  superficial  glance,  Mr. 
Cleves  is  the  plainest  and  least  clerical-looking  of  the  party; 
yet,  strange  to  say,  there  is  the  true  parish  priest,  the  pastor 
beloved,  consulted,  relied  on  by  his  flock;  a  clergyman  who  is 
not  associated  with  the  undertaker,  but  thought  of  as  the  sur- 
est helper  under  a  difficulty,  as  a  monitor  who  is  encouraging 


AMOS  BARTON.  55 

rather  than  severe.  Mr.  Cleves  has  the  wonderful  art  of 
preaching  sermons  which  the  wheelwright  and  the  blacksmith 
can  understand;  not  because  he  talks  condescending  twaddle, 
but  because  he  can  call  a  spade  a  spade,  and  knows  how  to 
disencumber  ideas  of  their  wordy  frippery.  Look  at  him  more 
attentively,  and  you  will  see  that  his  face  is  a  very  interesting 
one — that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  humor  and  feeling  playing  in 
his  gray  eyes  and  about  the  corners  of  his  roughly  cut  mouth : 
— a  man,  you  observe,  who  has  most  likely  sprung  from  the 
harder-working  section  of  the  middle  class,  and  has  hereditary 
sympathies  with  the  checkered  life  of  the  people.  He  gets 
together  the  working  men  in  his  parish  on  Monday  evening, 
and  gives  them  a  sort  of  conversational  lecture  on  useful  prac- 
tical matters,  telling  them  stories,  or  reading  some  select 
passages  from  an  agreeable  book,  and  commenting  on  them ; 
and  if  you  were  to  ask  the  first  laborer  or  artisan  in  Tripple- 
gate  what  sort  of  man  the  parson  was,  he  would  say :  "  A 
uncommon  knowin',  sensible,  free-spoken  gentleman;  very 
kind  an'  good-uatur'd  too."  Yet  for  all  this,  he  is  perhaps 
the  best  Grecian  of  the  party,  if  we  except  Mr.  Baird,  the 
young  man  on  his  left. 

Mr.  Baird  has  since  gained  considerable  celebrity  as  an 
original  writer  and  metropolitan  lecturer,  but  at  that  time  he 
used  to  preach  in  a  little  church  something  like  a  barn,  to  a 
congregation  consisting  of  three  rich  farmers  and  their  ser- 
vants, about  fifteen  laborers,  and  the  due  proportion  of  women 
and  children.  The  rich  farmers  understood  him  to  be  "  very 
high  learnt " ;  but  if  you  had  interrogated  them  for  a  more 
precise  description,  they  would  have  said  that  he  was  "  a  thin- 
nish- faced  man,  with  a  sort  o'  cast  in  his  eye,  like." 

Seven,  altogether :  a  delightful  number  for  a  dinner-party, 
supposing  the  units  to  be  delightful,  but  everything  depends 
on  that.  During  dinner  Mr.  Fellowes  took  the  lead  in  the 
conversation,  which  set  strongly  in  the  direction  of  mangold- 
wurzel  and  the  rotation  of  crops ;  for  Mr.  Fellowes  and  Mr. 
Cleves  cultivated  their  own  glebes.  Mr.  Ely,  too,  had  some 
agricultural  notions,  and  even  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke  was 
made  alive  to  that  class  of  mundane  subjects  by  the  possession 
of  some  potato-ground.  The  two  young  curates  talked  a  little 


56  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

aside  during  these  discussions,  which  had  imperfect  interest 
for  their  unbeneficed  minds ;  and  the  transcendental  and  near- 
sighted Mr.  Baird  seemed  to  listen  somewhat  abstractedly, 
knowing  little  more  of  potatoes  and  maugold-wurzel  than  that 
they  were  some  form  of  the  "  Conditioned." 

"  What  a  hobby  farming  is  with  Lord  Watling !  "  said  Mr. 
Eellowes,  when  the  cloth  was  being  drawn.  "  I  went  over  his 
farm  at  Tetterley  with  him  last  summer.  It  is  really  a  model 
farm ;  first-rate  dairy,  grazing  and  wheat  land,  and  such  splen- 
did farm- buildings!  An  expensive  hobby,  though.  He  sinks 
a  good  deal  of  money  there,  I  fancy.  He  has  a  great  whim 
for  black  cattle,  and  he  sends  that  drunken  old  Scotch  bailiff 
of  his  to  Scotland  every  year,  with  hundreds  in  his  pocket  to 
buy  these  beasts." 

"  By  the  by, "  said  Mr.  Ely,  "  do  you  know  who  is  the  man 
to  whom  Lord  Watling  has  given  the  Bramhill  livings?" 

"A  man  named  Sargent.  I  knew  him  at  Oxford.  His 
brother  is  a  lawyer,  and  was  very  useful  to  Lord  Watling  in 
that  ugly  Brounsell  affair.  That's  why  Sargent  got  the  liv- 
ing." 

"Sargent,"  said  Mr.  Ely.  "I  know  him.  Isn't  he  a 
showy,  talkative  fellow;  has  written  travels  in  Mesopotamia, 
or  something  of  that  sort?  " 

"That's  the  man." 

"He  was  at  Witherington  once,  as  Bagshawe's  curate.  He 
got  into  rather  bad  odor  there,  through  some  scandal  about  a 
flirtation,  I  think." 

"  Talking  of  scandal,"  returned  Mr.  Fellowes,  "have  you 
heard  the  last  story  about  Barton?  Nisbett  was  telling  me 
the  other  day  that  he  dines  alone  with  the  Countess  at  six, 
while  Mrs.  Barton  is  in  the  kitchen  acting  as  cook." 

"Kather  an  apocryphal  authority,  Nisbett,"  said  Mr.  El}'. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Cleves,  with  good-natured  humor  twinkling 
in  his  eyes,  "  depend  upon  it,  that  is  a  corrupt  version.  The 
original  text  is,  that  they  all  dined  together  with  six — mean- 
ing six  children — and  that  Mrs.  Barton  is  an  excellent  cook." 

"  I  wish  dining  alone  together  may  be  the  worst  of  that  sad 
business, "  said  the  Kev.  Archibald  Duke,  in  a  tone  implying 
that  his  wish  was  a  strong  figure  of  speech. 


AMOS  BARTON.  57 

"  Well, "  said  Mr.  Fellowes,  filling  his  glass  and  looking 
jocose,  "  Barton  is  certainly  either  the  greatest  gull  in  exist- 
ence, or  he  has  some  cunning  secret — some  philter  or  other  to 
make  himself  charming  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair  lady.  It  isn't  all 
of  us  that  can  make  conquests  when  our  ugliness  is  past  its 
bloom." 

"  The  lady  seemed  to  have  made  a  conquest  of  him  at  the 
very  outset,"  said  Mr.  Ely.  "I  was  immensely  amused  one 
night  at  Granby's  when  he  was  telling  us  her  story  about  her 
husband's  adventures  He  said:  'When  she  told  me  the  tale, 
I  felt  I  don't  know  how, — I  felt  it  from  the  crown  of  my  head 
to  the  sole  of  my  feet. ' ' 

Mr.  Ely  gave  these  words  dramatically,  imitating  the  Eev. 
Amos' s  fervor  and  symbolic  action,  and  every  one  laughed  ex- 
cept Mr.  Duke,  whose  after-dinner  view  of  things  was  not  apt 
to  be  jovial.  He  said : 

"  I  think  some  of  us  ought  to  remonstrate  with  Mr.  Barton 
on  the  scandal  he  is  causing.  He  is  not  only  imperilling  his 
own  soul,  but  the  souls  of  his  flock." 

"  Depend  upon  it, "  said  Mr.  Cleves,  "  there  is  some  simple 
explanation  of  the  whole  affair,  if  we  only  happened  to  know 
it.  Barton  has  always  impressed  me  as  a  right-minded 
man,  who  has  the  knack  of  doing  himself  injustice  by  his 
manner." 

"Now  /  never  liked  Barton,"  said  Mr.  Fellowes.  "He's 
not  a  gentleman.  Why,  he  used  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  that  canting  Prior,  who  died  a  little  while  ago ; — a  fellow 
who  soaked  himself  with  spirits  and  talked  of  the  Gospel 
through  an  inflamed  nose." 

"  The  Countess  has  given  him  more  refined  tastes,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Mr.  Ely. 

"  Well, "  observed  Mr.  Cleves,  "  the  poor  fellow  must  have  a 
hard  pull  to  get  along,  with  his  small  income  and  large  fam- 
ily. Let  us  hope  the  Countess  does  something  toward  making 
the  pot  boil. " 

"  Not  she, "  said  Mr.  Duke ;  "  there  are  greater  signs  of  pov- 
erty about  them  than  ever." 

"Well,  come,"  returned  Mr.  Cleves,  who  could  be  caustic 
sometimes,  and  who  was  not  at  all  fond  of  his  reverend  brother, 


58  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Mr.  Duke,  "that's  something  in  Barton's  favor  at  all  events. 
He  might  be  poor  without  showing  signs  of  poverty." 

Mr.  Duke  turned  rather  yellow,  which  was  his  way  of  blush- 
ing, and  Mr.  Ely  came  to  his  relief  by  observing : 

"They're  making  a  very  good  piece  of  work  of  Shepperton 
Church.  Dolby,  the  architect,  who  has  it  in  hand,  is  a  very 
clever  fellow." 

"It's  he  who  has  been  doing  Coppleton  Church,"  said  Mr. 
Furness.  "  They've  got  it  in  excellent  order  for  the  visita- 
tion." 

This  mention  of  the  visitation  suggested  the  Bishop,  and 
thus  opened  a  wide  duct,  which  entirely  diverted  the  stream  of 
animadversion  from  that  small  pipe — that  capillary  vessel,  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton. 

The  talk  of  the  clergy  about  their  Bishop  belongs  to  the 
esoteric  part  of  their  profession ;  so  we  will  at  once  quit  the 
dining-room  at  Milby  Vicarage,  lest  we  should  happen  to  over- 
hear remarks  unsuited  to  the  lay  understanding,  and  perhaps 
dangerous  to  our  repose  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  DARE  say  the  long  residence  of  the  Countess  Czerlaski  at 
Shepperton  Vicarage  is  very  puzzling  to  you  also,  dear  reader, 
as  well  as  to  Mr.  Barton's  clerical  brethren;  the  more  so,  as  I 
hope  you  are  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  put  that  very  evil  in- 
terpretation on  it  which  evidently  found  acceptance  with  the 
sallow  and  dyspeptic  Mr.  Duke,  and  with  the  florid  and  highly 
peptic  Mr.  Fellowes.  You  have  seen  enough,  I  trust,  of  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  more  apt  to  fall 
into  a  blunder  than  into  a  sin — more  apt  to  be  deceived  than 
to  incur  a  necessity  for  being  deceitful :  and  if  you  have  a 
keen  eye  for  physiognomy,  you  will  have  detected  that  the 
Countess  Czerlaski  loved  herself  far  too  well  to  get  entangled 
in  an  unprofitable  vice. 

How,  then,  you  will  say,  could  this  fine  lady  choose  to  quar- 
ter herself  on  the  establishment  of  a  poor  curate,  where  the 


AMOS  BARTON.  59 

carpets  were  probably  falling  into  holes,  where  the  attendance 
was  limited  to  a  inaid-of-all-work,  and  where  six  children 
were  running  loose  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening?  Surely  you  must  be  straining  prob- 
ability. 

Heaven  forbid!  For  not  having  a  lofty  imagination,  as 
you  perceive,  and  being  unable  to  invent  thrilling  incidents  for 
your  amusement,  my  only  merit  must  lie  in  the  truth  with 
which  I  represent  to  you  the  humble  experience  of  ordinary 
fellow-mortals.  I  wish  to  stir  your  sympathy  with  common- 
place troubles — to  win  your  tears  for  real  sorrow  :  sorrow  such 
as  may  live  next  door  to  you — such  as  walks  neither  in  rags 
nor  in  velvet,  but  in  very  ordinary  decent  apparel. 

Therefore,  that  you  may  dismiss  your  suspicions  as  to  the 
truth  of  my  picture,  I  will  beg  you  to  consider,  that  at  the 
time  the  Countess  Czerlaski  left  Camp  Villa  in  dudgeon,  she 
had  only  twenty  pounds  in  her  pocket,  being  about  one-third 
of  the  income  she  possessed  independently  of  her  brother. 
You  will  then  perceive  that  she  was  in  the  extremely  incon- 
venient predicament  of  having  quarrelled,  not  indeed  with  her 
bread  and  cheese,  but  certainly  with  her  chicken  and  tart — a 
predicament  all  the  more  inconvenient  to  her,  because  the 
habit  of  idleness  had  quite  unfitted  her  for  earning  those  neces- 
sary superfluities,  and  because  with  all  her  fascinations  she 
had  not  secured  any  enthusiastic  friends  whose  houses  were 
open  to  her  and  who  were  dying  to  see  her.  Thus  she  had 
completely  checkmated  herself,  unless  she  could  resolve  on  one 
unpleasant  move — namely,  to  humble  herself  to  her  brother, 
and  recognize  his  wife.  This  seemed  quite  impossible  to  her 
as  long  as  she  entertained  the  hope  that  he  would  make  the 
first  advances ;  and  in  this  flattering  hope  she  remained  month 
after  month  at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  gracefully  overlooking  the 
deficiencies  of  accommodation,  and  feeling  that  she  was  really 
behaving  charmingly.  "  Who  indeed, "  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  could  do  otherwise,  with  a  lovely,  gentle  creature  like  Milly? 
I  shall  really  be  sorry  to  leave  the  poor  thing." 

So,  though  she  lay  in  bed  till  ten,  and  came  down  to  a  sep- 
arate breakfast  at  eleven,  she  kindly  consented  to  dine  as  early 
as  five,  when  a  hot  joint  was  prepared,  which  coldly  furnished 


60  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

forth  the  children's  table  the  next  day;  she  considerately  pre- 
vented Milly  from  devoting  herself  too  closely  to  the  children, 
by  insisting  on  reading,  talking,  and  walking  with  her;  and 
she  even  began  to  embroider  a  cap  for  the  next  baby,  which 
must  certainly  be  a  girl,  and  be  named  Caroline. 

After  the  first  month  or  two  of  her  residence  at  the  vicarage 
the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  became  aware — as,  indeed,  it  was  un- 
avoidable that  he  should — of  the  strong  disapprobation  it  drew 
upon  him,  and  the  change  of  feeling  toward  him  which  it  was 
producing  in  his  kindest  parishioners.  But,  in  the  first  place, 
he  still  believed  in  the  Countess  as  a  charming  and  influential 
woman,  disposed  to  befriend  him,  and,  in  any  case,  he  could 
hardly  hint  departure  to  a  lady  guest  who  had  been  kind  to 
him  and  his,  and  who  might  any  day  spontaneously  announce 
the  termination  of  her  visit ;  in  the  second  place,  he  was  con- 
scious of  his  own  innocence,  and  felt  some  contemptuous  indig- 
nation toward  people  who  were  ready  to  imagine  evil  of  him ; 
and,  lastly,  he  had,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  a  strong  will 
of  his  own,  so  that  a  certain  obstinacy  and  defiance  mingled 
itself  with  his  other  feelings  on  the  subject. 

The  one  unpleasant  consequence  which  was  not  to  be  evaded 
or  counteracted  by  any  mere  mental  state,  was  the  increasing 
drain  on  his  slender  purse  for  household  expenses,  to  meet 
which  the  remittance  he  had  received  from  the  clerical  charity 
threatened  to  be  quite  inadequate.  Slander  may  be  defeated 
by  equanimity;  but  courageous  thoughts  will  not  pay  your 
baker's  bill,  and  fortitude  is  nowhere  considered  legal  tender 
for  beef.  Month  after  month  the  financial  aspect  of  the  Rev. 
Amos's  affairs  became  more  and  more  serious  to  him,  and 
month  after  month,  too,  wore  away  more  and  more  of  that 
armor  of  indignation  and  defiance  with  which  he  had  at  first 
defended  himself  from  the  harsh  looks  of  faces  that  were  once 
the  friendliest. 

But  quite  the  heaviest  pressure  of  the  trouble  fell  on  Milly 
— on  gentle,  uncomplaining  Milly — whose  delicate  body  was 
becoming  daily  less  fit  for  all  the  many  things  that  had  to  be 
done  between  rising  up  and  lying  down.  At  first,  she  thought 
the  Countess's  visit  would  not  last  long,  and  she  was  quite 
glad  to  incur  extra  exertion  for  the  sake  of  making  her  friend 


AMOS  BARTON.  61 

comfortable.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  think  of  all  the  rough  work 
she  did  with  those  lovely  hands — all  by  the  sly,  without  let- 
ting her  husband  know  anything  about  it,  and  husbands  are 
not  clairvoyant :  how  she  salted  bacon,  ironed  shirts  and  cra- 
vats, put  patches  on  patches,  and  re-darned  darns.  Then 
there  was  the  task  of  mending  and  eking  out  baby-linen  in 
prospect,  and  the  problem  perpetually  suggesting  itself  how 
she  and  Nanny  should  manage  when  there  was  another  baby, 
as  there  would  be  before  very  many  months  were  past. 

When  time  glided  on  and  the  Countess's  visit  did  not  end, 
Milly  was  not  blind  to  any  phase  of  their  position.  She  knew 
of  the  slander;  she  was  aware  of  the  keeping  aloof  of  old 
friends;  but  these  she  felt  almost  entirely  on  her  husband's 
account.  A  loving  woman's  world  lies  within  the  four  walls 
of  her  own  home;  and  it  is  only  through  her  husband  that  she 
is  in  any  electric  communication  with  the  world  beyond.  Mrs. 
Simpkins  may  have  looked  scornfully  at  her,  but  baby  crows 
and  holds  out  his  little  arms  none  the  less  blithely;  Mrs. 
Tomkins  may  have  left  off  calling  on  her,  but  her  husband 
conies  home  none  the  less  to  receive  her  care  and  caresses ;  it 
has  been  wet  and  gloomy  out  of  doors  to-day,  but  she  has 
looked  well  after  the  shirt  buttons,  has  cut  out  baby's  pina- 
fores, and  half  finished  Willy's  blouse. 

So  it  was  with  Milly.  She  was  only  vexed  that  her  hus- 
band should  be  vexed — only  wounded  because  he  was  miscon- 
ceived. But  the  difficulty  about  ways  and  means  she  felt  in 
quite  a  different  manner.  Her  rectitude  was  alarmed  lest  they 
sho'uld  have  to  make  tradesmen  wait  for  their  money;  her 
motherly  love  dreaded  the  diminution  of  comforts  for  the  chil- 
dren ;  and  the  sense  of  her  own  failing  health  gave  exaggerated 
force  to  these  fears. 

Milly  could  no  longer  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the 
Countess  was  inconsiderate,  if  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  en- 
tertain severer  thoughts ;  and  she  began  to  feel  that  it  would 
soon  be  a  duty  to  tell  her  frankly  that  they  really  could  not 
afford  to  have  her  visit  further  prolonged.  But  a  process  was 
going  forward  in  two  other  minds,  which  ultimately  saved 
Milly  from  having  to  perform  this  painful  task. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Countess  was  getting  weary  of  Shep- 


62  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

perton — weary  of  waiting  for  her  brother's  overtures  which 
never  came;  so,  one  fine  morning,  she  reflected  that  forgive- 
ness was  a  Christian  duty,  that  a  sister  should  be  placable, 
that  Mr.  Bridmain  must  feel  the  need  of  her  advice,  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  for  three  years,  and  that  very  likely 
"that  woman"  didn't  make  the  poor  man  happy.  In  this 
amiable  frame  of  mind  she  wrote  a  very  affectionate  appeal, 
and  addressed  it  to  Mr.  Bridmain,  through  his  banker. 

Another  mind  that  was  being  wrought  up  to  a  climax  was 
Nanny's,  the  maid-of-all-work,  who  had  a  warm  heart  and  a 
still  warmer  temper.  Nanny  adored  her  mistress:  she  had 
been  heard  to  say  that  she  was  "  ready  to  kiss  the  ground  as 
the  missis  trod  on";  and  Walter,  she  considered,  was  her 
baby,  of  whom  she  was  as  jealous  as  a  lover.  But  she  had, 
from  the  first,  very  slight  admiration  for  the  Countess  Czer- 
laski.  That  lady,  from  Nanny's  point  of  view,  was  a  per- 
sonage always  "  drawed  out  i'  fine  clothes, "  the  chief  result  of 
whose  existence  was  to  cause  additional  bed-making,  carrying 
of  hot  water,  laying  of  table-cloths,  and  cooking  of  dinners. 
It  was  a  perpetually  heightening  "  aggravation  "  to  Nanny  that 
she  and  her  mistress  had  to  "  slave  "  more  than  ever,  because 
there  was  this  fine  lady  in  the  house. 

"An'  she  pays  nothin'  for't  neither,"  observed  Nanny  to 
Mr.  Jacob  Tomms,  a  young  gentleman  in  the  tailoring  line, 
who  occasionally — simply  out  of  a  taste  for  dialogue — looked 
into  the  vicarage  kitchen  of  an  evening.  "  I  know  the  mas- 
ter's shorter  o'  money  than  iver,  an'  it  meks  no  end  o'  differ- 
ence i'  th'  housekeepin' — her  bein'  here,  besides  bein'  obliged 
to  have  a  charwoman  constant." 

"There's  fine  stories  i'  the  village  about  her,"  said  Mr. 
Tomms.  "  They  say  as  Muster  Barton's  great  wi'  her,  or  else 
she'd  niver  stop  here." 

"  Then  they  say  a  passill  o'  lies,  an'  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  go  an'  tell  'em  o'er  again.  Do  you  think  as  the  master,  as 
has  got  a  wife  like  the  missis,  'ud  go  running  arter  a  stuck-up 
piece  o'  goods  like  that  Countess,  as  isn't  fit  to  black  the 
missis's  shoes?  I'm  none  so  fond  o'  the  master,  but  I  know 
better  on  him  nor  that." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  b'lieve  it,"  said  Mr.  Tomms,  humbly. 


AMOS  BARTON.  63 

"B'lieve  it?  you'd  ha'  been  a  ninny  if  yer  did.  An'  she's 
a  nasty,  stingy  thing,  that  Countess.  She's  niver  giv'  me  a 
sixpence  nor  an  old  rag  neither,  sin'  here  she's  been.  A-lyin' 
abed  an'  a-comin'  down  to  breakfast  when  other  folks  wants 
their  dinner ! " 

If  such  was  the  state  of  Nanny's  mind  as  early  as  the  end 
of  August,  when  this  dialogue  with  Mr.  Tomms  occurred,  you 
may  imagine  what  it  must  have  been  by  the  beginning  of  No- 
vember, and  that  at  that  time  a  very  slight  spark  might  any 
day  cause  the  long-smouldering  anger  to  flame  forth  in  open 
indignation. 

That  spark  happened  to  fall  the  very  morning  that  Mrs. 
Hackit  paid  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter.  Nanny's  dislike  of  the  Countess  extended  to  the 
innocent  dog  Jet,  whom  she  "  couldn't  a-bear  to  see  made  a 
fuss  wi'  like  a  Christian.  An'  the  little  ouzel  must  be  washed, 
too,  ivery  Saturday,  as  if  there  wasn't  children  enoo  to  wash, 
wi'out  washin'  dogs." 

Now  this  particular  morning  it  happened  that  Milly  was 
quite  too  poorly  to  get  up,  and  Mr.  Barton  observed  to  Nanny, 
on  going  out,  that  he  would  call  and  tell  Mr.  Brand  to  come. 
These  circumstances  were  already  enough  to  make  Nanny  anx- 
ious and  susceptible.  But  the  Countess,  comfortably  ignorant 
of  them,  came  down  as  usual  about  eleven  o'clock  to  her  sep- 
arate breakfast,  which  stood  ready  for  her  at  that  hour  in  the 
parlor ;  the  kettle  singing  on  the  hob  that  she  might  make  her 
own  tea.  There  was  a  little  jug  of  cream,  taken  according  to 
custom  from  last  night's  milk,  and  specially  saved  for  the 
Countess's  breakfast.  Jet  always  awaited  his  mistress  at  her 
bedroom  door,  and  it  was  her  habit  to  carry  him  downstairs. 

"  Now,  my  little  Jet,"  she  said,  putting  him  down  gently  on 
the  hearth-rug,  "you  shall  Lave  a  nice,  nice  breakfast." 

Jet  indicated  that  he  thought  that  observation  extremely 
pertinent  and  well  timed  by  immediately  raising  himself  on 
his  hind  legs,  and  the  Countess  emptied  the  cream-jug  into 
the  saucer.  Now  there  was  usually  a  small  jug  of  milk  stand- 
ing on  the  tray  by  the  side  of  the  cream,  and  destined  for 
Jet's  breakfast;  but  this  morning  Nanny,  being  "  inoithered, " 
had  forgotten  that  part  of  the  arrangements,  so  that  when  the 


64  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Countess  had  made  her  tea,  she  perceived  there  was  no  second 
jug,  and  rang  the  bell.  Nanny  appeared,  looking  very  red 
and  heated — the  fact  was,  she  had  been  "doing  up"  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  work  which  by  no  means 
conduces  to  blandness  of  temper. 

"Nanny,  you  have  forgotten  Jet's  milk;  will  you  bring  me 
some  more  cream,  please?  " 

This  was  just  a  little  too  much  for  Nanny's  forbearance. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say.  Here  I  am  wi'  my  hands  full  o'  the  chil- 
dren an'  the  dinner,  and  missis  ill  abed,  and  Mr.  Brand 
a-comin' ;  and  I  must  run  o'er  the  village  to  get  more  cream, 
'cause  you've  give  it  to  that  nasty  little  blackamoor." 

"Is  Mrs.  Barton  ill?" 

"  111 — yes — I  should  think  she  is  ill,  and  much  you  care. 
She's  likely  to  be  ill,  moithered  as  she  is  from  mornin'  to 
night,  wi'  folks  as  had  better  be  elsewhere. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  behaving  in  this  way?  " 

"Mean?  Why,  I  mean  as  the  missis  is  a-slavin'  her  life 
out  an'  a-sittin'  up  o'  nights,  for  folks  as  are  better  able  to 
wait  of  her,  i'stid  o'  lyin'  abed  an'  doin'  nothin'  all  the 
blessed  day,  but  mek  work." 

"Leave  the  room  and  don't  be  insolent." 

"  Insolent!  I'd  better  be  insolent  than  like  what  some  folks 
is, — a-livin'  on  other  folks,  an'  bringin'  a  bad  name  on  'em 
into  the  bargain." 

Here  Nanny  flung  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  lady  to  digest 
this  unexpected  breakfast  at  her  leisure. 

The  Countess  was  stunned  for  a  few  minutes,  but  when  she 
began  to  recall  Nanny's  words,  there  was  no  possibility  of 
avoiding  very  unpleasant  conclusions  from  them,  or  of  failing 
to  see  her  position  at  the  vicarage  in  an  entirely  new  light. 
The  interpretation,  too,  of  Nanny's  allusion  to  a  "bad  name" 
did  not  lie  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Countess's  imagination,  and 
she  saw  the  necessity  of  quitting  Shepperton  without  delay. 
Still,  she  would  like  to  wait  for  her  brother's  letter — no — she 
would  ask  Milly  to  forward  it  to  her — still  better,  she  would 
go  at  once  to  London,  inquire  her  brother's  address  at  his 
banker's,  and  go  to  see  him  without  preliminary. 

She  went  up  to  Milly 's  room,  and,  after  kisses  and  inquiries, 


AMOS  BARTON.  65 

said :  "  I  find,  on  consideration,  dear  Milly,  from  the  letter  I 
had  yesterday,  that  I  must  bid  you  good-by  and  go  up  to  Lon- 
don at  once.  But  you  must  not  let  me  leave  you  ill,  you 
naughty  thing." 

"  Oh,  no, "  said  Milly,  who  felt  as  if  a  load  had  been  taken 
off  her  back,  "  I  shall  be  very  well  in  an  hour  or  two.  Indeed, 
I'm  much  better  now.  You  will  want  me  to  help  you  to  pack. 
But  you  won't  go  for  two  or  three  days?  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  to-morrow.  But  I  shall  not  let  you  help 
me  to  pack,  so  don't  entertain  any  unreasonable  projects,  but 
lie  still.  Mr.  Brand  is  coming,  Nanny  says." 

The  news  was  not  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  Mr.  Barton 
when  he  came  home,  though  he  was  able  to  express  more  re- 
gret at  the  idea  of  parting  than  Milly  could  summon  to  her 
lips.  He  retained  more  of  his  original  feeling  for  the  Count- 
ess than  Milly  did,  for  women  never  betray  themselves  to  men 
as  they  do  to  each  other ;  and  the  Rev.  Amos  had  not  a  keen 
instinct  for  character.  But  he  felt  that  he  was  being  relieved 
from  a  difficulty,  and  in  the  way  that  was  easiest  for  him. 
Neither  he  nor  Milly  suspected  that  it  was  Nanny  who  had 
cut  the  knot  for  them,  for  the  Countess  took  care  to  give  no 
sign  on  that  subject.  As  for  Nanny,  she  was  perfectly  aware 
of  the  relation  between  cause  and  effect  in  the  affair,  and 
secretly  chuckled  over  her  outburst  of  "  sauce "  as  the  best 
morning's  work  she  had  ever  done. 

So,  on  Friday  morning,  a  fly  was  seen  standing  at  the  Vicar- 
age gate  with  the  Countess's  boxes  packed  upon  it;  and  pres- 
ently that  lady  herself  was  seen  getting  into  the  vehicle. 
After  a  last  shake  of  the  hand  to  Mr.  Barton,  and  last  kisses 
to  Milly  and  the  children,  the  door  was  closed;  and  as  the  fly 
rolled  off,  the  little  party  at  the  Vicarage  gate  caught  a  last 
glimpse  of  the  handsome  Countess  leaning  and  waving  kisses 
from  the  carriage  window.  Jet's  little  black  phiz  was  also 
seen,  and  doubtless  he  had  his  thoughts  and  feelings  on  the 
occasion,  but  he  kept  them  strictly  within  his  own  bosom. 

The  schoolmistress  opposite  witnessed  this  departure,  and 
lost  no  time  in  telling  it  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  again  com- 
municated the  news  to  the  landlord  of  "  The  Jolly  Colliers, " 
at  the  close  of  the  morning  school-hours.  Nanny  poured  the 


66  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

joyful  tidings  into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Farquhar's  footman,  who 
happened  to  call  with  a  letter,  and  Mr.  Brand  carried  them  to 
all  the  patients  he  visited  that  morning,  after  calling  on  Mrs. 
Barton.  So  that,  before  Sunday,  it  was  very  generally  known 
in  Shepperton  parish  that  the  Countess  Czerlaski  had  left  the 
Vicarage. 

The  Countess  had  left,  but,  alas !  the  bills  she  had  contrib- 
uted to  swell  still  remained ;  so  did  the  exiguity  of  the  chil- 
dren's clothing,  which  also  was  partly  an  indirect  consequence 
of  her  presence ;  and  so,  too,  did  the  coolness  and  alienation 
in  the  parishioners,  which  could  not  at  once  vanish  before  the 
fact  of  her  departure.  The  Rev.  Amos  was  not  exculpated — 
the  past  was  not  expunged.  But  what  was  worse  than  all, 
Milly's  health  gave  frequent  cause  for  alarm,  and  the  prospect 
of  baby's  birth  was  overshadowed  by  more  than  the  usual 
fears.  The  birth  came  prematurely,  about  six  weeks  after  the 
Countess's  departure,  but  Mr.  Brand  gave  favorable  reports  to 
all  inquirers  on  the  following  day,  which  was  Saturday.  On 
Sunday,  after  morning  service,  Mrs.  Hackit  called  at  tho 
Vicarage  to  inquire  how  Mrs.  Barton  was,  and  was  invited 
upstairs  to  see  her.  Milly  lay  placid  and  lovely  in  her  feeble- 
ness, and  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Hackit  with  a  beaming 
smile.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  her  to  see  her  old  friend  unre- 
served and  cordial  once  more.  The  seven-months'  baby  was 
very  tiny  and  very  red,  but  "handsome  is  that  handsome 
does" — he  was  pronounced  to  be  "doing  well,"  and  Mrs. 
Hackit  went  home  gladdened  at  heart  to  think  that  the  perilous 
hour  was  over. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  following  Wednesday,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hackit  were 
seated  comfortably  by  their  bright  hearth,  enjoying  the  long 
afternoon  afforded  by  an  early  dinner,  Rachel,  the  housemaid, 
came  in  and  said : 

"  If  you  please  'm,  the  shepherd  says,  have  you  heard  as 
Mrs.  Barton's  wuss,  and  not  expected  to  live?  " 

Mrs.  Hackit  turned  pale,  and  hurried  out  to  question  the 


AMOS  BARTON.  67 

shepherd,  who,  she  found,  had  heard  the  sad  news  at  an  ale- 
house in  the  village.  Mr.  Hackit  followed  her  out  and  said : 
"  You'd  better  have  the  pony-chaise,  and  go  directly." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  too  much  overcome  to  utter  any 
exclamations.  "  Rachel,  come  an'  help  me  on  wi'  my  things." 
When  her  husband  was  wrapping  her  cloak  round  her  feet  in 
the  pony-chaise,  she  said: 

"  If  I  don't  come  home  to-night,  I  shall  send  back  the  pony- 
chaise,  and  you'll  know  I'm.  wanted  there." 

"Yes,  yes." 

It  was  a  bright  frosty  day,  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Hackit  ar- 
rived at  the  Vicarage,  the  sun  was  near  its  setting.  There 
was  a  carriage  and  pair  standing  at  the  gate,  which  she  recog- 
nized as  Dr.  Madeley's,  the  physician  from  Rotherby.  She 
entered  at  the  kitchen  door  that  she  might  avoid  knock- 
ing, and  quietly  questioned  Nanny.  No  one  was  in  the 
kitchen,  but,  passing  on,  she  saw  the  sitting-room  door 
open,  and  Nanny,  with  Walter  in  her  arms,  removing  the 
knives  and  forks,  which  had  been  laid  for  dinner  three 
hours  ago. 

"Master  says  he  can't  eat  no  dinner,"  was  Nanny's  first 
word.  "He's  never  tasted  nothin'  sin'  yesterday  mornin', 
but  a  cup  o'  tea." 

"  When  was  your  missis  took  worse?" 

"  0'  Monday  night.  They  sent  for  Dr.  Madeley  i'  the  mid- 
dle o'  the  day  yisterday,  an'  he's  here  again  now." 

"  Is  the  baby  alive?  " 

"No,  it  died  last  night.  The  children's  all  at  Mrs.  Bond's. 
She  come  and  took  'em  away  last  night,  but  the  master  says 
they  must  be  fetched  soon.  He's  upstairs  now,  wi'  Dr.  Made- 
ley  and  Mr.  Brand." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Hackit  heard  the  sound  of  a  heavy, 
slow  foot  in  the  passage;  and  presently  Amos  Barton  entered, 
with  dry,  despairing  eyes,  haggard  and  unshaven.  He  ex- 
pected to  find  the  sitting-room  as  he  left  it,  with  nothing  to 
meet  his  eyes  but  Milly's  work-basket  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  the  children's  toys  overturned  in  the  bow-window. 
But  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Hackit  come  toward  him  with  answer- 
ing sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pent-up  fountain  of  tears  was 


68  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

opened ;  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  hid  his  face,  and  sobbed 
aloud. 

"  Bear  up,  Mr.  Barton, "  Mrs.  Hackit  ventured  to  say  at 
last ;  "  bear  up,  for  the  sake  o'  them  dear  children. " 

"The  children,"  said  Amos,  starting  up.  "They  must  be 
sent  for.  Some  one  must  fetch  them.  Milly  will  want  to — 

He  couldn't  finish  the  sentence,  but  Mrs.  Hackit  understood 
him,  and  said:  "I'll  send  the  man  with  the  pony -carriage 
for  'em." 

She  went  out  to  give  the  order,  and  encountered  Dr.  Made- 
ley  and  Mr.  Brand,  who  were  just  going. 

Mr.  Brand  said :  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  are  here,  Mrs. 
Hackit.  No  time  must  be  lost  in  sending  for  the  children. 
Mrs.  Barton  wants  to  see  them." 

"  Do  you  quite  give  her  up,  then?  " 

"  She  can  hardly  live  through  the  night.  She  begged  us  to 
tell  her  how  long  she  had  to  live ;  and  then  asked  for  the  chil- 
dren." 

The  pony-carriage  was  sent;  and  Mrs.  Hackit,  returning  to 
Mr.  Barton,  said  she  would  like  to  go  upstairs  now.  He  went 
upstairs  with  her  and  opened  the  door.  The  chamber  fronted 
the  west;  the  sun  was  just  setting,  and  the  red  light  fell  full 
upon  the  bed,  where  Milly  lay  with  the  hand  of  death  visibly 
upon  her.  The  feather-bed  had  been  removed,  and  she  lay 
low  on  a  mattress,  with  her  head  slightly  raised  by  pillows. 
Her  long  fair  neck  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  a  painful 
effort ;  her  features  were  pallid  and  pinched,  and  her  eyes  were 
closed.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room  but  the  nurse  and  the 
mistress  of  the  free  school,  who  had  come  to  give  her  help 
from  the  beginning  of  the  change. 

Amos  and  Mrs.  Hackit  stood  beside  the  bed,  and  Milly 
opened  her  eyes. 

"My  darling,  Mrs.  Hackit  is  come  to  see  you." 

Milly  smiled  and  looked  at  her  with  that  strange,  far-off 
look  which  belongs  to  ebbing  life. 

"Are  the  children  coming?"  she  said,  painfully. 

"  Yes,  they  will  be  here  directly. " 

She  closed  her  eyes  again. 

Presently  the  pony-carriage  was  heard ;  and  Amos,  motion- 


AMOS  BARTON.  69 

ing  to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  follow  him,  left  the  room.  On  their 
way  downstairs,  she  suggested  that  the  carriage  should  remain 
to  take  them  away  again  afterward,  and  Amos  assented. 

There  they  stood  in  the  melancholy  sitting-room — the  five 
sweet  children,  from  Patty  to  Chubby — all,  with  their  moth- 
er's eyes — all,  except  Patty,  looking  up  with  a  vague  fear  at 
their  father  as  he  entered.  Patty  understood  the  great  sorrow 
that  was  come  upon  them,  and  tried  to  check  her  sobs  as  she 
heard  her  papa's  footsteps. 

"  My  children, "  said  Amos,  taking  Chubby  in  his  arms,  "  God 
is  going  to  take  away  your  dear  mamma  from  us.  She  wants 
to  see  you  to  say  good-by.  You  must  try  to  be  very  good  and 
not  cry. " 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  turned  round  to  see  if  Nanny 
was  there  with  Walter,  and  then  led  the  way  upstairs,  lead- 
ing Dickey  with  the  other  hand.  Mrs.  Hackit  followed  with 
Sophy  and  Patty,  and  then  came  Nanny  with  Walter  and  Fred. 

It  seemed  as  if  Milly  had  heard  the  little  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  for  when  Amos  entered  her  eyes  were  wide  open,  eagerly 
looking  toward  the  door.  They  all  stood  by  the  bedside — 
Amos  nearest  to  her,  holding  Chubby  and  Dickey.  But  she 
motioned  for  Patty  to  come  first,  and  clasping  the  poor  pale 
child  by  the  hand,  said : 

"Patty,  I'm  going  away  from  you.  Love  your  papa. 
Comfort  him ;  and  take  care  of  your  little  brothers  and  sisters. 
God  will  help  you." 

Patty  stood  perfectly  quiet,  and  said,  "Yes,  mamma." 

The  mother  motioned  with  her  pallid  lips  for  the  dear  child 
to  lean  toward  her  and  kiss  her;  and  then  Patty's  great  an- 
guish overcame  her,  and  she  burst  into  sobs.  Amos  drew  her 
toward  him  and  pressed  her  head  gently  to  him,  while  Milly 
beckoned  Fred  and  Sophy,  and  said  to  them  more  faintly : 

"  Patty  will  try  to  be  your  mamma  when  I  am  gone,  my 
darlings.  You  will  be  good  and  not  vex  her." 

They  leaned  toward  her,  and  she  stroked  their  fair  heads, ' 
and  kissed  their  tear-stained  cheeks.  They  cried  because 
mamma  was  ill  and  papa  looked  so  unhappy ;  but  they  thought, 
perhaps  next  week  things  would  be  as  they  used  to  be  again. 

The  little  ones  were  lifted  on  the  bed  to  kiss  her.     Little 


70  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Walter  said,  "Mamma,  mamma,"  and  stretched  out  his  fat 
arms  and  smiled;  and  Chubby  seemed  gravely  wondering; 
but  Dickey,  who  had  been  looking  fixedly  at  her,  with  lip 
hanging  down,  ever  since  he  came  into  the  room,  now  seemed 
suddenly  pierced  with  the  idea  that  mamma  was  going  away 
somewhere ;  his  little  heart  swelled,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

Then  Mrs.  Hackit  and  Nanny  took  them  all  away.  Patty 
at  first  begged  to  stay  at  home  and  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bond's 
again ;  but  when  Nanny  reminded  her  that  she  had  better  go 
to  take  care  of  the  younger  ones,  she  submitted  at  once,  and 
they  were  all  packed  in  the  pony -carriage  once  more. 

Milly  kept  her  eyes  shut  for  some  time  after  the  children 
were  gone.  Amos  had  sunk  on  his  knees,  and  was  holding 
her  hand  while  he  watched  her  face.  By  and  by  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  drawing  him  close  to  her,  whispered  slowly : 

"  My  dear — dear — husband — you  have  been — very — good  to 
me.  You — have — made  me — very — happy." 

She  spoke  no  more  for  many  hours.  They  watched  her 
breathing  becoming  more  and  more  difficult,  until  evening 
deepened  into  night,  and  until  midnight  was  passed.  About 
half -past  twelve  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak,  and  they 
leaned  to  catch  her  words. 

"Music — music — didn't  you  hear  it?" 

Amos  knelt  by  the  bed  and  held  her  hand  in  his.  He  did 
not  believe  in  his  sorrow.  It  was  a  bad  dream.  He  did  not 
know  when  she  was  gone.  But  Mr.  Brand,  whom  Mrs.  Hackit 
had  sent  for  before  twelve  o'clock,  thinking  that  Mr.  Barton 
might  probably  need  his  help,  now  came  up  to  him,  and  said : 

"  She  feels  no  more  pain  now.  Come,  my  dear  sir,  come 
with  me." 

"  She  isn't  dead  ?  "  shrieked  the  poor  desolate  man,  strug- 
gling to  shake  off  Mr.  Brand,  who  had  taken  him  by  the  arm. 
But  his  weary,  weakened  frame  was  not  equal  to  resistance, 
and  he  was  dragged  out  of  the  room. 


AMOS  BARTON.  71 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THEY  laid  her  in  her  grave — the  sweet  mother  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms — while  the  Christmas  snow  lay  thick  upon 
the  graves.  It  was  Mr.  Cleves  who  buried  her.  On  the  first 
news  of  Mr.  Barton's  calamity,  he  had  ridden  over  from  Trip- 
plegate  to  beg  that  he  might  be  made  of  some  use,  and  his 
silent  grasp  of  Amos' s  hand  had  penetrated  like  the  painful 
thrill  of  life-recovering  warmth  to  the  poor  benumbed  heart  of 
the  stricken  man. 

The  snow  lay  thick  upon  the  graves,  and  the  day  was  cold 
and  dreary;  but  there  was  many  a  sad  eye  watching  that  black 
procession  as  it  passed  from  the  vicarage  to  the  church,  and 
from  the  church  to  the  open  grave.  There  were  men  and 
women  standing  in  that  churchyard  who  had  bandied  vulgar 
jests  about  their  pastor,  and  who  had  lightly  charged  him  with 
sin ;  but  now,  when  they  saw  him  following  the  coffin,  pale 
and  haggard,  he  was  consecrated  anew  by  his  great  sorrow, 
and  they  looked  at  him  with  respectful  pity. 

All  the  children  were  there,  for  Amos  had  willed  it  so, 
thinking  that  some  dim  memory  of  that  sacred  moment  might 
remain  even  with  little  Walter,  and  link  itself  with  what  he 
would  hear  of  his  sweet  mother  in  after  years.  He  himself 
led  Patty  and  Dickey ;  then  came  Sophy  and  Fred ;  Mr.  Brand 
had  begged  to  carry  Chubby,  and  Nanny  followed  with  Wal- 
ter. They  made  a  circle  round  the  grave  while  the  coffin  was 
being  lowered.  Patty  alone  of  all  the  children  felt  that 
mamma  was  in  that  coffin,  and  that  a  new  and  sadder  life  had 
begun  for  papa  and  herself.  She  was  pale  and  trembling,  but 
she  clasped  his  hand  more  firmly  as  the  coffin  went  down,  and 
gave  no  sob.  Fred  and  Sophy,  though  they  were  only  two 
n.nd  three  years  younger,  and  though  they  had  seen  mamma 
in  her  coffin,  seemed  to  themselves  to  be  looking  at  some 
strange  show.  They  had  not  learned  to  decipher  that  terrible 
handwriting  of  human  destiny,  illness  and  death.  Dickey 
had  rebelled  against  his  black  clothes,  until  he  was  told  that  it 
would  be  naughty  to  mamma  not  to  put  them  on,  when  he  at 


72  SCENES'  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

once  submitted;  and  now,  though  he  had  heard  Nanny  say 
that  niamma  was  in  heaven,  he  had  a  vague  notion  that  she 
would  come  home  again  to-morrow,  and  say  he  had  been  a 
good  boy  and  let  him  empty  her  work-box.  He  stood  close  to 
his  father,  with  great  rosy  cheeks  and  wide-opeu  blue  eyes, 
looking  first  up  at  Mr.  Cleves  and  then  down  at  the  coffin,  and 
thinking  he  and  Chubby  would  play  at  that  when  they  got  home. 

The  burial  was  over,  and  Amos  turned  with  his  children  to 
re-enter  the  house — the  house  where,  an  hour  ago,  Milly's 
dear  body  lay,  where  the  windows  were  half-darkened,  and 
sorrow  seemed  to  have  a  hallowed  precinct  for  itself,  shut  out 
from  the  world.  But  now  she  was  gone;  the  broad  snow- 
reflected  daylight  was  in  all  the  rooms;  the  vicarage  again 
seemed  part  of  the  common  working-day  world,  and  Amos,  for 
the  first  time,  felt  that  he  was  alone — that  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  year  after  year,  would  have  to  be  lived 
through  without  Milly's  love.  Spring  would  come,  and  she 
would  not  be  there ;  summer,  and  she  would  not  be  there ;  and 
he  would  never  have  her  again  with  him  by  the  fireside  in 
the  long  evenings.  The  seasons  all  seemed  irksome  to  his 
thoughts ;  and  how  dreary  the  sunshiny  days  that  would  be 
sure  to  come !  She  was  gone  from  him ;  and  he  could  never 
show  her  his  love  any  more,  never  make  up  for  omissions  in 
the  past  by  filling  future  days  with  tenderness. 

Oh,  the  anguish  of  that  thought  that  we  can  never  atone  to 
our  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave  them,  for  the  light 
answers  we  returned  to  their  plaints  or  their  pleadings,  for 
the  little  reverence  we  showed  to  that  sacred  human  soul  that 
lived  so  close  to  us,  and  was  the  divinest  thing  God  had  given 
us  to  know ! 

Amos  Barton  had  been  an  affectionate  husband,  and  while 
Milly  was  with  him,  he  was  never  visited  by  the  thought  that 
perhaps  his  sympathy  with  her  was  not  quick  and  watchful 
enough ;  but  now  he  relived  all  their  life  together,  with  that 
terrible  keenness  of  memory  and  imagination  which  bereave- 
ment gives,  and  he  felt  as  if  his  very  love  needed  a  pardon  for 
its  poverty  and  selfishness. 

No  outward  solace  could  counteract  the  bitterness  of  this 
inward  woe.  But  outward  solace  came.  Cold  faces  looked 


AMOS  BARTON.  73 

kind  again,  and  parishioners  turned  over  in  their  minds  what 
they  could  best  do  to  help  their  pastor.  Mr.  Oldinport  wrote 
to  express  his  sympathy,  and  enclosed  another  twenty-pound 
note,  begging  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  contribute  in  this 
way  to  the  relief  of  Mr.  Barton's  mind  from  pecuniary  anxie- 
ties, under  the  pressure  of  a  grief  which  all  his  parishioners 
must  share ;  and  offering  his  interest  toward  placing  the  two 
eldest  girls  in  a  school  expressly  founded  for  clergymen's 
daughters.  Mr.  Cleves  succeeded  in  collecting  thirty  pounds 
among  his  richer  clerical  brethren,  and,  adding  ten  pounds 
himself,  sent  the  sum  to  Amos,  with  the  kindest  and  most 
delicate  words  of  Christian  fellowship  and  manly  friendship. 
Miss  Jackson  forgot  old  grievances,  and  came  to  stay  some 
months  with  Milly's  children,  bringing  such  material  aid  as 
she  could  spare  from  her  small  income.  These  were  substan- 
tial helps,  which  relieved  Amos  from  the  pressure  of  his  money 
difficulties;  and  the  friendly  attentions,  the  kind  pressure  of 
the  hand,  the  cordial  looks  he  met  with  everywhere  in  his 
parish,  made  him  feel  that  the  fatal  frost  which  had  settled 
on  his  pastoral  duties,  during  the  Countess's  residence  at  the 
vicarage,  was  completely  thawed,  and  that  the  hearts  of  his 
parishioners  were  once  more  opeu  to  him. 

No  one  breathed  the  Countess's  name  now ;  for  Milly's  mem- 
ory hallowed  her  husband,  as  of  old  the  place  was  hallowed  on 
which  an  angel  from  God  had  alighted. 

When  the  spring  came,  Mrs.  Hackit  begged  that  she  might 
have  Dickey  to  stay  with  her,  aud  great  was  the  enlargement 
of  Dickey's  experience  from  that  visit.  Every  morning  he  was 
allowed — being  well  wrapt  up  as  to  his  chest  by  Mrs.  Hackit' s 
own  hands,  but  very  bare  and  red  as  to  his  legs — to  run  loose 
in  the  cow  and  poultry  yard,  to  persecute  the  turkey-cock  by 
satirical  imitations  of  his  gobble-gobble,  and  to  put  difficult 
questions  to  the  groom  as  to  the  reasons  why  horses  had  four 
legs,  and  other  transcendental  matters.  Then  Mr.  Hackit 
would  take  Dickey  up  on  horseback  when  he  rode  round  his 
farm,  and  Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  large  plum-cake  in  cut,  ready  to 
meet  incidental  attacks  of  hunger.  So  that  Dickey  had  con- 
siderably modified  his  views  as  to  the  desirability  of  Mrs. 
Hackit' s  kisses. 


74  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

The  Misses  Farquhar  made  particular  pets  of  Fred  and 
Sophy,  to  whom  they  undertook  to  give  lessons  twice  a  week 
in  writing  and  geography ;  and  Mrs.  Farquhar  devised  many 
treats  for  the  little  ones.  Patty's  treat  was  to  stay  at  home, 
or  walk  about  with  her  papa;  and  when  he  sat  by  the  fire  in 
an  evening,  after  the  other  children  were  gone  to  bed,  she 
would  bring  a  stool,  and,  placing  it  against  his  feet,  would  sit 
down  upon  it  and  lean  her  head  against  his  knee.  Then  his 
hand  would  rest  on  that  fair  head,  and  he  would  feel  that 
^Lilly's  love  was  not  quite  gone  out  of  his  life. 

So  the  time  wore  on  till  it  was  May  again,  and  the  church 
was  quite  finished  and  reopened  in  all  its  new  splendor,  and 
Mr.  Barton  was  devoting  himself  with  more  vigor  than  ever  to 
his  parochial  duties.  But  one  morning — it  was  a  very  bright 
morning,  and  evil  tidings  sometimes  like  to  fly  in  the  finest 
weather — there  came  a  letter  for  Mr.  Barton,  addressed  in  the 
Vicar's  handwriting.  Amos  opened  it  with  some  anxiety — 
somehow  or  other  he  had  a  presentiment  of  evil.  The  letter 
contained  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Carpe  had  resolved  on 
coming  to  reside  at  Shepperton,  and  that,  consequently,  in  six 
mouths  from  that  time  Mr.  Barton's  duties  as  curate  in  that 
parish  would  be  closed. 

Oh,  it  was  hard!  Just  when  Shepperton  had  become  the 
place  where  he  most  wished  to  stay — where  he  had  friends 
who  knew  his  sorrows — where  he  lived  close  to  Milly's  grave. 
To  part  from  that  grave  seemed  like  parting  with  Milly  a  sec- 
ond time;  for  Amos  was  one  who  clung  to  all  the  material 
links  between  his  mind  and  the  past.  His  imagination  was 
not  vivid,  and  required  the  stimulus  of  actual  perception. 

It  roused  some  bitter  feeling,  too,  to  think  that  Mr.  Carpe's 
wish  to  reside  at  Shepperton  was  merely  a  pretext  for  remov- 
ing Mr.  Barton,  in  order  that  he  might  ultimately  give  the 
curacy  of  Sheppertoii  to  his  own  brother-in-law,  who  was 
known  to  be  wanting  a  new  position. 

Still,  it  must  be  borne ;  and  the  painful  business  of  seeking 
another  curacy  must  be  set  about  without  loss  of  time.  After 
the  lapse  of  some  months,  Amos  was  obliged  to  renounce  the 
hope  of  getting  one  at  all  near  Shepperton,  and  he  at  length 
resigned  himself  to  accepting  one  in  a  distant  county.  The 


AMOS  BARTON.  75 

j»arish  was  in  a  large  manufacturing  town,  where  his  walks 
would  lie  among  noisy  streets  and  dingy  alleys,  and  where  the 
children  would  have  no  garden  to  play  in,  no  pleasant  farm- 
houses to  visit. 

It  was  another  blow  inflicted  on  the  bruised  man. 


CHAPTER   X. 

AT  length  the  dreaded  week  was  come,  when  Amos  and  his 
(luldren  must  leave  Shepperton.  There  was  general  regret 
among  the  parishioners  at  his  departure :  not  that  any  one  of 
them  thought  his  spiritual  gifts  pre-eminent,  or  was  conscious 
of  great  edification  from  his  ministry.  But  his  recent  troubles 
had  called  out  their  better  sympathies,  and  that  is  always  a 
source  of  love.  Ainos  failed  to  touch  the  spring  of  goodness 
by  his  sermons,  but  he  touched  it  effectually  by  his  sorrows ; 
and  there  was  now  a  real  bond  between  him  and  his  flock. 

"My  heart  aches  for  them  poor  motherless  children,"  said 
Mrs.  Hackit  to  her  husband,  "  a-going  among  strangers,  and 
into  a  nasty  town,  where  there's  no  good  victuals  to  be  had, 
and  you  must  pay  dear  to  get  bad  uns." 

Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  vague  notion  of  a  town  life  as  a  combi- 
nation of  dirty  backyards,  measly  pork,  and  dingy  linen. 

The  same  sort  of  sympathy  was  strong  among  the  poorer 
class  of  parishioners.  Old  stiff-jointed  Mr.  Tozer,  who  was 
still  able  to  earn  a  little  by  gardening  "jobs,"  stopped  Mrs. 
Cramp,  the  charwoman,  on  her  way  home  from  the  vicarage, 
where  she  had  been  helping  Nanny  to  pack  up  the  day  before 
the  departure,  and  inquired  very  particularly  into  Mr.  Bar- 
ton's prospects. 

"  Ah,  poor  mon, "  he  was  heard  to  say,  "  I'm  sorry  for  un. 
He  hedn't  much  here,  but  he'll  be  wuss  off  theer.  Half  a 
loaf's  better  nor  ne'er  un." 

The  sad  good-bys  had  all  been  said  before  that  last  evening; 
and  after  all  the  packing  was  done  and  all  the  arrangements 
were  made,  Amos  felt  the  oppression  of  that  blank  interval  in 
which  one  has  nothing  left  to  think  of  but  the  dreary  future — 


76  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

bhe  separation  from  the  loved  and  familiar,  and  the  chilling 
sntrance  on  the  new  and  strange.  In  every  parting  there  is 
in  image  of  death. 

Soon  after  ten  o'clock,  when  he  had  sent  Nanny  to  bed, 
that  she  might  have  a  good  night's  rest  before  the  fatigues  of 
;he  morrow,  he  stole  softly  out  to  pay  a  last  visit  to  Milly's 
'rave.  It  was  a  moonless  night,  but  the  sky  was  thick  with 
stars,  and  their  light  was  enough  to  show  that  the  grass  had 
jrown  long  on  the  grave,  and  that  there  was  a  tombstone  tell- 
ing in  bright  letters,  on  a  dark  ground,  that  beneath  were 
leposited  the  remains  of  Amelia,  the  beloved  wife  of  Amos 
Barton,  who  died  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  leaving  a 
iusband  and  six  children  to  lament  her  loss.  The  final  words 
>f  the  inscription  were,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

The  husband  was  now  advancing  toward  the  dear  mound 
:rom  which  he  was  so  soon  to  be  parted,  perhaps  forever.  He 
stood  a  few  minutes  reading  over  and  over  again  the  words  on 
ihe  tombstone,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  all  the  happy  and 
mhappy  past  was  a  reality.  For  love  is  frightened  at  the  in- 
;ervals  of  insensibility  and  callousness  that  encroach  by  little 
ind  little  on  the  dominion  of  grief,  and  it  makes  efforts  to  re- 
sail  the  keenness  of  the  first  anguish. 

Gradually,  as  his  eye  dwelt  on  the  words,  "  Amelia,  the  be- 
oved  wife,"  the  waves  of  feeling  swelled  within  his  soul,  and 
le  threw  himself  on  the  grave,  clasping  it  with  his  arms,  and 
dssing  the  cold  turf. 

"Milly,  Milly,  dost  thou  hear  me?  I  didn't  love  thee 
mough — I  wasn't  tender  enough  to  thee — but  I  think  of  it  all 
low." 

The  sobs  came  and  choked  his  utterance,  and  the  warm 
-ears  fell. 


CONCLUSION. 

ONLY  once  again  in  his  life  has  Amos  Barton  visited  Milly's 
jrave.  It  was  in  the  calm  and  softened  light  of  an  autumnal 
ifternoon,  and  he  was  not  alone.  He  held  on  his  arm  a  young 
uroman,  with  a  sweet,  grave  face,  which  strongly  recalled  the 


AMOS  BARTON.  77 

expression  of  Mrs.  Barton's,  but  was  less  lovely  in  form  and 
color.  She  was  about  thirty,  but  there  were  some  premature 
lines  round  her  mouth  and  eyes,  which  told  of  early  anxiety. 

Amos  himself  was  much  changed.  His  thin  circlet  of  hair 
was  nearly  white,  and  his  walk  was  no  longer  firm  and  up- 
right. But  his  glance  was  calm,  and  even  cheerful,  and  his 
neat  linen  told  of  a  woman's  care.  Milly  did  not  take  all  her 
love  from  the  earth  when  she  died.  She  had  left  some  of  it 
in  Patty's  heart. 

All  the  other  children  were  now  grown  up,  and  had  gone 
their  several  ways.  Dickey,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  had 
shown  remarkable  talents  as  an  engineer.  His  cheeks  are 
still  ruddy,  in  spite  of  mixed  mathematics,  and  his  eyes  are 
still  large  and  blue;  but  in  other  respects  his  person  would 
present  no  marks  of  identification  for  his  friend  Mrs.  Hackit, 
if  she  were  to  see  him ;  especially  now  that  her  eyes  must  be 
grown  very  dim,  with  the  wear  of  more  than  twenty  additional 
years.  He  is  nearly  six  feet  high,  and  has  a  proportionately 
broad  chest;  he  wears  spectacles,  and  rubs  his  large  white 
hands  through  a  mass  of  shaggy  brown  hair.  But  I  am  sure 
you  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Richard  Barton  is  a  thoroughly 
good  fellow,  as  well  as  a  man  of  talent,  and  you  will  be  glad 
any  day  to  shake  hands  with  him,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as 
his  mother's. 

Patty  alone  remains  by  her  father's  side,  and  makes  the 
evening  sunshine  of  his  life. 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

WHEN  old  Mr.  Gilfil  died,  thirty  years  ago,  there  was 
general  sorrow  in  Shepperton;  and  if  black  cloth  had  riot 
Deen  hung  round  the  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  by  order  of  his 
lephew  and  principal  legate,  the  parishioners  would  certainly 
lave  subscribed  the  necessary  sum  out  of  their  own  pockets, 
rather  than  allow  such  a  tribute  of  respect  to  be  wanting. 
&.11  the  farmers'  wives  brought  out  their  black  bombazines; 
ind  Mrs.  Jennings,  at  the  Wharf,  by  appearing  the  first 
Sunday  after  Mr.  Gilfil's  death  in  her  salmon-colored  ribbons 
ind  green  shawl,  excited  the  severest  remark.  To  be  sure, 
Mrs.  Jennings  was  a  new-comer,  and  town-bred,  so  that  she 
;ould  hardly  be  expected  to  have  very  clear  notions  of  what 
svas  proper;  but  as  Mrs.  Higgins  observed  in  an  undertone  to 
Mrs.  Parrot  when  they  were  coming  out  of  church,  "  Her  hus- 
Dand,  who'd  been  born  i'  the  parish,  might  ha'  told  her  bet- 
;er."  An  unreadiness  to  put  on  black  on  all  available  occa- 
sions, or  too  great  an  alacrity  in  putting  it  off,  argued,  in 
Mrs.  Higgins's  opinion,  a  dangerous  levity  of  character,  and 
m  unnatural  insensibility  to  the  essential  fitness  of  things 

"Some  folks  can't  a-bear  to  put  off  their  colors,"  she  re- 
narked  ;  "  but  that  was  never  the  way  i'  my  family.  Why, 
Mrs.  Parrot,  from  the  time  I  was  married,  till  Mr.  Higgins 
lied,  nine  years  ago  come  Candlemas,  I  niver  was  out  o'  black 
iwo  year  together !  " 

"  Ah, "  said  Mrs.  Parrot,  who  was  conscious  of  inferiority 
in  this  respect,  "there  isn't  many  families  as  have  had  so 
many  deaths  as  yours,  Mrs.  Higgins." 

Mrs.  Higgins,  who  was  an  elderly  widow,  "well  left,"  re- 
flected with  complacency  that  Mrs.  Parrot's  observation  was 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  79 

no  more  than  just,  and  that  Mrs.  Jennings  very  likely  be- 
longed to  a  family  which  had  had  no  funerals  to  speak  of. 

Even  dirty  Dame  Fripp,  who  was  a  very  rare  church-goer, 
had  been  to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  beg  a  bit  of  old  crape,  and  with 
this  sign  of  grief  pinned  on  her  little  coal-scuttle  bonnet,  was 
seen  dropping  her  courtesy  opposite  the  reading-desk.  This 
manifestation  of  respect  toward  Mr.  Gilfil's  memory  on  the 
part  of  Dame  Fripp  had  no  theological  bearing  whatever.  It 
was  due  to  an  event  which  had  occurred  some  years  back,  and 
which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  left  that  grimy  old  lady  as  in- 
different to  the  means  of  grace  as  ever.  Dame  Fripp  kept- 
leeches,  and  was  understood  to  have  such  remarkable  influence 
over  those  wilful  animals  in  inducing  them  to  bite  under  the 
most  unpromising  circumstances,  that  though  her  own  leeches 
were  usually  rejected,  from  a  suspicion  that  they  had  lost 
their  appetite,  she  herself  was  constantly  called  in  to  apply 
the  more  lively  individuals  furnished  from  Mr.  Pilgrim's  sur- 
gery, when,  as  was  very  often  the  case,  one  of  that  clever 
man's  paying  patients  was  attacked  with  inflammation.  Thus 
Dame  Fripp,  in  addition  to  "  property  "  supposed  to  yield  her 
no  less  than  half  a  crown  a  week,  was  in  the  receipt  of  profes- 
sional fees,  the  gross  amount  of  which  was  vaguely  estimated 
by  her  neighbors  as  "pouns  an'  pouns."  Moreover,  she  drove 
a  brisk  trade  in  lollipop  with  epicurean  urchins,  who  recklessly 
purchased  that  luxury  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  per  cent. 
Nevertheless,  with  all  these  notorious  sources  of  income,  the 
shameless  old  woman  constantly  pleaded  poverty,  and  begged 
for  scraps  at  Mrs.  Hackit' s,  who,  though  she  always  said 
Mrs.  Fripp  was  "as  false  as  two  folks,"  and  no  better  than  a 
miser  and  a  heathen,  had  yet  a  leaning  toward  her  as  an  old 
neighbor. 

"  There's  that  case-hardened  old  Judy  a-coming  after  the 
tea-leaves  again,"  Mrs.  Hackit  would  say;  "an'  I'm  fool 
enough  to  give  'ein  her,  though  Sally  want's  'em  all  the  while 
to  sweep  the  floors  with !  " 

Suph  was  Dame  Fripp,  whom  Mr.  Gilfil,  riding  leisurely  in 
top-boots  and  spurs  from  doing  duty  at  Knebley  one  warm 
Sunday  afternoon,  observed  sitting  in  the  dry  ditch  near  her 
cottage,  and  by  her  side  a  large  pig,  who,  with  that  ease  and 


80  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

confidence  belonging  to  perfect  friendship,  was  lying  with  his 
head  in  her  lap,  and  making  no  effort  to  play  the  agreeable 
beyond  an  occasional  grunt. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Fripp,"  said  the  Vicar,  "I  didn't  know  you 
had  such  a  fine  pig.  You'll  have  some  rare  flitches  at  Christ- 
mas!" 

"  Eh,  God  forbid !  My  son  gev  him  me  two  'ear  ago,  an' 
he's  been  company  to  me  iver  sin'.  I  couldn't  find  i'  my 
heart  to  part  wi'm,  if  I  niver  knowed  the  taste  o'  bacon-fat 
again." 

"  Why,  he'll  eat  his  head  off,  and  yours  too.  How  can  you 
go  on  keeping  a  pig,  and  making  nothing  by  him?  " 

"  Oh,  he  picks  a  bit  hisself  wi'  rootin',  and  I  dooant  mind 
doing  wi'out  to  gi'  him  summat.  A  bit  o'  coompany's  meat 
an'  drink  too,  an'  he  follers  me  about,  and  grunts  when  I 
spake  to'm,  just  like  a  Christian." 

Mr.  Gilfil  laughed,  and  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  he  said 
good-by  to  Dame  Fripp  without  asking  her  why  she  had  riot 
been  to  church,  or  making  the  slightest  effort  for  her  spiritual 
edification.  But  the  next  day  he  ordered  his  man  David  to 
take  her  a  great  piece  of  bacon,  with  a  message,  saying,  the 
parson  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Mrs.  Fripp  would  know  the 
taste  of  bacon-fat  again.  So,  when  Mr.  Gilfil  died,  Dame 
Fripp  manifested  her  gratitude  and  reverence  in  the  simple 
dingy  fashion  I  have  mentioned. 

You  already  suspect  that  the  Vicar  did  not  shine  in  the  more 
spiritual  functions  of  his  office ;  and  indeed,  the  utmost  I  can 
say  for  him  in  this  respect  is,  that  he  performed  those  func- 
tions with  undeviating  attention  to  brevity  and  despatch.  He 
had  a  large  heap  of  short  sermons,  rather  yellow  and  worn  at 
the  edges,  from  which  he  took  two  every  Sunday,  securing 
perfect  impartiality  in  the  selection  by  taking  them  as  they 
came,  without  reference  to  topics;  and  having  preached  one  of 
these  sermons  at  Shepperton  in  the  morning,  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  hastily  with  the  other  in  his  pocket  to  Kneb- 
ley,  where  he  officiated  in  a  wonderful  little  church,  with  a 
checkered  pavement  which  had  once  rung  to  the  iron  tread  of 
military  monks,  with  coats  of  arms  in  clusters  on  the  lofty 
roof,  marble  warriors,  and  their  wives  without  noses  occupy- 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  81 

ing  a  large  proportion  of  the  area,  and  the  twelve  apostles, 
with  their  heads  very  much  on  one  side,  holding  didactic  rib- 
bons, painted  in  fresco  on  the  walls.  Here,  in  an  absence  of 
mind  to  which  he  was  prone,  Mr.  Gilfil  would  sometimes  for- 
get to  take  off  his  spurs  before  putting  on  his  surplice,  and  only 
become  aware  of  the  omission  by  feeling  something  myste- 
riously tugging  at  the  skirts  of  that  garment  as  he  stepped  into 
the  reading-desk.  But  the  Knebley  farmers  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  criticising  the  moon  as  their  pastor.  He  be- 
longed to  the  course  of  nature,  like  markets  and  toll-gates  and 
dirty  bank-notes;  and  being  a  vicar,  his  claim  on  their  vener- 
ation had  never  been  counteracted  by  an  exasperating  claim 
on  their  pockets.  Some  of  them,  who  did  not  indulge  in  the 
superfluity  of  a  covered  cart  without  springs,  had  dined  half 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual — that  is  to  say,  at  twelve  o'clock — 
in  order  to  have  time  for  their  long  walk  through  miry  lanes, 
and  present  themselves  duly  in  their  places  at  two  o'clock,  when 
Mr.  ( Udinport  and  Lady  Felicia,  to  whom  Knebley  Church  was 
a  sort  of  family  temple,  made  their  way  among  the  bows  and 
courtesies  of  their  dependents  to  a  carved  and  canopied  pew 
in  the  chancel,  diffusing  as  they  want  a  delicate  odor  of  Indian 
roses  on  the  unsusceptible  nostrils  of  the  congregation. 

The  farmers'  wives  and  children  sate  on  the  dark  oaken 
benches,  but  the  husbands  usually  chose  the  distinctive  dig- 
nity of  a  stall  under  one  of  the  twelve  apostles,  where,  when 
the  alternation  of  prayers  and  responses  had  given  place  to 
the  agreeable  monotony  of  the  sermon,  Paterfamilias  might  be 
seen  or  heard  sinking  into  a  pleasant  doze,  from  which  he  in- 
fallibly woke  up  at  the  sound  of  the  concluding  doxology. 
And  then  they  made  their  way  back  again  through  the  miry 
lanes,  perhaps  almost  as  much  the  better  for  this  simple 
weekly  tribute  to  what  they  knew  of  good  and  right,  as 
many  a  more  wakeful  and  critical  congregation  of  the  present 
day. 

Mr.  Gilfil,  too,  used  to  make  his  way  home  in  the  later  years 
of  his  life,  for  he  had  given  up  the  habit  of  dining  at  Knebley 
Abbey  on  a  Sunday,  having,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  a  very 
bitter  quarrel  with  Oldinport,  the  cousin  and  predecessor  of 
the  Mr.  Oldinport  who  flourished  in  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton's 


82  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

time.  That  quarrel  was  a  sad  pity,  for  the  two  had  had  many 
a  good  day's  hunting  together  when  they  were  younger,  and 
in  those  friendly  times  not  a  few  members  of  the  hunt  envied 
Mr.  Oldinport  the  excellent  terms  he  was  on  with  his  vicar; 
for,  as  Sir  Jasper  Sitwell  observed,  "next  to  a  man's  wife, 
there's  nobody  can  be  such  an  infernal  plague  to  you  as  a 
parson,  always  under  your  nose  on  your  own  estate. " 

I  fancy  the  original  difference  which  led  to  the  rupture  was 
very  slight ;  but  Mr.  Gilfil  was  of  an  extremely  caustic  turn, 
his  satire  having  the  flavor  of  originality  which  was  quite 
wanting  in  his  sermons;  and  as  Mr.  Oldinport's  armor  of 
conscious  virtue  presented  some  considerable  and  conspicuous 
gaps,  the  Vicar's  keen-edged  retorts  probably  made  a  few  in- 
cisions too  deep  to  be  forgiven.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  view 
of  the  case  presented  by  Mr.  Hackit,  who  knew  as  much  of 
the  matter  as  any  third  person.  For,  the  very  week  after  the 
quarrel,  when  presiding  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Associa- 
tion for  the  Prosecution  of  Felons,  held  at  the  Oldinport  Arms, 
he  contributed  an  additional  zest  to  the  conviviality  on  that 
occasion  by  informing  the  company  that  "the  parson  had 
given  the  Squire  a  lick  with  the  rough  side  of  his  tongue." 
The  detection  of  the  person  or  persons  who  had  driven  off  Mr. 
Parrot's  heifer,  could  hardly  have  been  more  welcome  news 
to  the  Shepperton  tenantry,  with  whom  Mr.  Oldinport  was  in 
the  worst  odor  as  a  landlord,  having  kept  up  his  rents  in  spite 
of  falling  prices,  and  not  being  in  the  least  stung  to  emulation 
by  paragraphs  in  the  provincial  newspapers,  stating  that  the 
Honorable  Augustus  Purwell,  or  Viscount  Blethers,  had  made 
a  return  of  ten  per  cent,  on  their  last  rent-day.  The  fact  was, 
Mr.  Oldinport  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  standing  for 
Parliament,  whereas  he  had  the  strongest  intention  of  adding 
to  his  unentailed  estate.  Hence,  to  the  Shepperton  farmers 
it  was  as  good  as  lemon  with  their  grog  to  know  that  the  Vicar 
had  thrown  out  sarcasms  against  the  Squire's  charities,  as  little 
better  than  those  of  the  man  who  stole  a  goose,  and  gave  away 
the  giblets  in  alms.  For  Shepperton,  you  observe,  was  in  a 
state  of  Attic  culture  compared  with  Knebley ;  it  had  turnpike 
roads  and  a  public  opinion,  whereas,  in  the  Boeotian  Knebley, 
men's  minds  and  wagons  alike  moved  in  the  deepest  of  ruts, 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  83 

and  the  landlord  was  only  grumbled  at  as  a  necessary  and 
unalterable  evil,  like  the  weather,  the  weevils,  and  the  turnip- 

%. 

Thus  in  Shepperton  this  breach  with  Mr.  Oldinport  tended 
only  to  heighten  that  good  understanding  which  the  Vicar  had 
always  enjoyed  with  the  rest  of  his  parishioners,  from  the 
generation  whose  children  he  had  christened  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before,  down  to  that  hopeful  generation  represented 
by  little  Tommy  Bond,  who  had  recently  quitted  frocks  and 
trousers  for  the  severe  simplicity  of  a  tight  suit  of  corduroys, 
relieved  by  numerous  brass  buttons.  Tommy  was  a  saucy 
boy,  impervious  to  all  impressions  of  reverence,  and  exces- 
sively addicted  to  humming-tops  and  marbles,  with  which 
recreative  resources  he  was  in  the  habit  of  immoderately  dis- 
tending the  pockets  of  his  corduroys.  One  day,  spinning  his 
top  on  the  garden-walk,  and  seeing  the  Vicar  advance  directly 
toward  it,  at  that  exciting  moment  when  it  was  beginning  to 
"  sleep  "  magnificently,  he  shouted  out  with  all  the  force  of 
his  lungs — "Stop!  don't  knock  my  top  down,  now!"  From 
that  day  "  little  Corduroys  "  had  been  an  especial  favorite  with 
Mr.  Gilfil,  who  delighted  to  provoke  his  ready  scorn  and  won- 
der by  putting  questions  which  gave  Tommy  the  meanest 
opinion  of  his  intellect. 

"  Well,  little  Corduroys,  have  they  milked  the  geese  to- 
day?" 

"Milked  the  geese!  why,  they  don't  milk  the  geese,  you 
silly!" 

"No!  dear  heart!  why,  how  do  the  goslings  live,  then?" 

The  nutriment  of  goslings  rather  transcending  Tommy's  ob- 
servations in  natural  history,  he  feigned  to  understand  this 
question  in  an  exclamatory  rather  than  an  interrogatory  sense, 
and  became  absorbed  in  winding  up  his  top. 

"  Ah,  I  see  you  don't  know  how  the  goslings  live!  But  did 
you  notice  how  it  rained  sugar-plums  yesterday?"  (Here 
Tommy  became  attentive.)  "  Why,  they  fell  into  my  pocket 
as  I  rode  along.  You  look  in  my  pocket  and  see  if  they 
didn't." 

Tommy,  without  waiting  to  discuss  the  alleged  antecedent, 
lost  no  time  in  ascertaining  the  presence  of  the  agreeable  con- 


84  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sequent,  for  he  had  a  well-founded  belief  in  the  advantages  of 
diving  into  the  Vicar's  pocket.  Mr.  Gilfil  called  it  his  won- 
derful pocket,  because,  as  he  delighted  to  tell  the  "young 
shavers  "  and  "  two-shoes  " — so  he  called  all  little  boys  and 
girls — whenever  he  put  pennies  into  it,  they  turned  into  sugar- 
plums or  gingerbread,  or  some  other  nice  thing.  Indeed,  little 
Bessie  Parrot,  a  flaxen-headed  "  two-shoes, "  very  white  and 
fat  as  to  her  neck,  always  had  the  admirable  directness  and 
sincerity  to  salute  him  with  the  question — "  What  zoo  dot  in 
zoo  pottet?  " 

You  can  imagine,  then,  that  the  christening  dinners  were 
none  the  less  merry  for  the  presence  of  the  parson.  The 
farmers  relished  his  society  particularly,  for  he  could  not  only 
smoke  his  pipe,  and  season  the  details  of  parish  affairs  with 
abundance  of  caustic  jokes  and  proverbs,  but,  as  Mr.  Bond 
often  said,  no  man  knew  more  than  the  Vicar  about  the  breed 
of  cows  and  horses.  He  had  grazing-land  of  his  own  about 
five  miles  off,  which  a  bailiff,  ostensibly  a  tenant,  farmed 
under  his  direction ;  and  to  ride  backward  and  forward,  and 
look  after  the  buying  and  selling  of  stock,  was  the  old  gentle- 
man's chief  relaxation,  now  his  hunting-days  were  over.  To 
hear  him  discussing  the  respective  merits  of  the  Devonshire 
breed  and  the  short-horns,  or  the  last  foolish  decision  of  the 
magistrates  about  a  pauper,  a  superficial  observer  might  have 
seen  little  difference,  beyond  his  superior  shrewdness,  between 
the  Vicar  and  his  bucolic  parishioners ;  for  it  was  his  habit  to 
approximate  his  accent  and  mode  of  speech  to  theirs,  doubt- 
less because  he  thought  it  a  mere  frustration  of  the  purposes 
of  language  to  talk  of  "  shear-hogs  "  and  "ewes  "  to  men  who 
habitually  said  "sharrags"  and  "yowes."  Nevertheless  the 
farmers  themselves  were  perfectly  aware  of  the  distinction 
between  them  and  the  parson,  and  had  not  at  all  the  less 
belief  in  him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman  for  his  easy 
speech  and  familiar  manners.  Mrs.  Parrot  smoothed  her 
apron  and  set  her  cap  right  with  the  utmost  solicitude  when 
she  saw  the  Vicar  coming,  made  him  her  deepest  courtesy,  and 
every  Christmas  had  a  fat  turkey  ready  to  send  him  with  her 
"  duty. "  And  in  the  most  gossiping  colloquies  with  Mr.  Gil- 
fil, you  might  have  observed  that  both  men  and  women 


MR.   GILPIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  85 

"minded  their  words,"  and  never  became  indifferent  to  his 
approbation. 

The  same  respect  attended  him  in  his  strictly  clerical  func- 
tions. The  benefits  of  baptism  were  supposed  to  be  somehow 
bound  up  with  Mr.  Gilfil's  personality,  so  metaphysical  a  dis- 
tinction as  that  between  a  man  and  his  office  being,  as  yet, 
quite  foreign  to  the  mind  of  a  good  Shepperton  Churchman, 
savoring,  he  would  have  thought,  of  Dissent  on  the  very  face 
of  it.  Miss  Selina  Parrot  put  off  her  marriage  a  whole  month 
when  Mr.  Gilfil  had  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  rather  than  be 
married  in  a  makeshift  manner  by  the  Miiby  curate. 

"We've  had  a  very  good  sermon  this  morning,"  was  the 
frequent  remark,  after  hearing  one  of  the  old  yellow  series, 
heard  with  all  the  more  satisfaction  because  it  had  been  heard 
for  the  twentieth  time ;  for  to  minds  on  the  Shepperton  level 
it  is  repetition,  not  novelty,  that  produces  the  strongest  effect; 
and  phrases,  like  tunes,  are  a  long  time  making  themselves  at 
home  in  the  brain. 

Mr.  Gilfil's  sermons,  as  you  may  imagine,  were  not  of  a 
highly  doctrinal,  still  less  of  a  polemical,  cast.  They  perhaps 
did  not  search  the  conscience  very  powerfully;  for  you  re- 
member that  to  Mrs.  Patten,  who  had  listened  to  them  thirty 
years,  the  announcement  that  she  was  a  sinner  appeared  an 
uncivil  heresy ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  made  no  unrea- 
sonable demand  on  the  Shepperton  intellect — amounting,  in- 
deed, to  little  more  than  an  expansion  of  the  concise  thesis, 
that  those  who  do  wrong  will  find  it  the  worse  for  them,  and 
those  who  do  well  will  find  it  the  better  for  them ;  the  nature 
of  wrong-doing  being  exposed  in  special  sermons  against  lying, 
backbiting,  anger,  slothfulness,  and  the  like;  and  well-doing 
being  interpreted  as  honesty,  truthfulness,  charity,  industry, 
and  other  common  virtues,  lying  quite  on  the  surface  of  life, 
and  having  very  little  to  do  with  deep  spiritual  doctrine. 
Mrs.  Patten  understood  that  if  she  turned  out  ill-crushed 
cheeses,  a  just  retribution  awaited  her;  though,  I  fear,  she 
made  no  particular  application  of  the  sermon  on  backbiting. 
Mrs.  Hackit  expressed  herself  greatly  edified  by  the  sermon 
on  honesty,  the  allusion  to  the  unjust  weight  and  deceitful 
balance  having  a  peculiar  lucidity  for  her,  owing  to  a  recent 


86  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

dispute  with  her  grocer ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that  she  ever  ap- 
peared to  be  much  struck  by  the  sermon  on  anger. 

As  to  any  suspicion  that  Mr.  Gilfil  did  not  dispense  the 
pure  Gospel,  or  any  strictures  on  his  doctrine  and  mode  of 
delivery,  such  thoughts  never  visited  the  minds  of  the  Shep- 
perton  parishioners — of  those  very  parishioners  who,  ten  or 
fifteen  years  later,  showed  themselves  extremely  critical  of 
Mr.  Barton's  discourses  and  demeanor.  But  in  the  interim 
.they  had  tasted  that  dangerous  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
— innovation,  which  is  well  known  to  open  the  eyes,  even  in 
an  uncomfortable  manner.  At  present,  to  find  fault  with  the 
sermon  was  regarded  as  almost  equivalent  to  finding  fault  with 
religion  itself.  One  Sunday,  Mr.  Hackit's  nephew,  Master 
Tom  Stokes,  a  flippant  town  youth,  greatly  scandalized  his 
excellent  relatives  by  declaring  that  he  could  write  as  good  a 
sermon  as  Mr.  Gilfil's;  whereupon  Mr.  Hackit  sought  to  re- 
duce the  presumptuous  youth  to  utter  confusion,  by  offering 
him  a  sovereign  if  he  would  fulfil  his  vaunt.  The  sermon  was 
written,  however ;  and  though  it  was  not  admitted  to  be  any- 
where within  reach  of  Mr.  Gilfil's,  it  was  yet  so  astonishingly 
like  a  sermon,  having  a  text,  three  divisions,  and  a  conclud- 
ing exhortation  beginning  "And  now,  my  brethren,"  that  the 
sovereign,  though  denied  formally,  was  bestowed  informally, 
and  the  sermon  was  pronounced,  when  Master  Stokes' s  back 
was  turned,  to  be  "an  uncommon  cliver  thing." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Pickard,  indeed,  of  the  Independent  Meeting, 
had  stated,  in  a  sermon  preached  at  Kotherby,  for  the  reduc- 
tion of  a  debt  on  New  Zion,  built,  with  an  exuberance  of 
faith  and  a  deficiency  of  funds,  by  seceders  from  the  original 
Zion,  that  he  lived  in  a  parish  where  the  Vicar  was  very 
"  dark  " ;  and  in  the  prayers  he  addressed  to  his  own  congrega- 
tion, he  was  in  the  habit  of  comprehensively  alluding  to  the 
parishioners  outside  the  chapel  walls,  as  those  who,  Gallio- 
like,  "  cared  for  none  of  these  things."  But  I  need  hardly  say 
that  no  church-goer  ever  came  within  earshot  of  Mr.  Pickard. 

It  was  not  to  the  Shepperton  farmers  only  that  Mr.  Gilfil's 
society  was  acceptable;  he  was  a  welcome  guest  at  some  of  the 
best  houses  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Old  Sir  Jasper  Sit- 
well  would  have  been  glad  to  see  him  every  week;  and  if  you 


MR.    GILFIL'S   LOVE-STORY.  87 

had  seen  him  conducting  Lady  Sitwell  in  to  dinner,  or  had 
heard  him  talking  to  her  with  quaint  yet  graceful  gallantry, 
you  would  have  inferred  that  the  earlier  period  of  his  life  had 
been  passed  in  more  stately  society  than  could  be  found  in 
Shepperton,  and  that  his  slipshod  chat  and  homely  manners 
were  but  like  weather-stains  on  a  fine  old  block  of  marble, 
allowing  you  still  to  see  here  and  there  the  fineness  of  the 
grain,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  original  tint.  But  in  his  later 
years  these  visits  became  a  little  too  troublesome  to  the  old 
gentleman,  and  he  was  rarely  to  be  found  anywhere  of  an 
evening  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  own  parish — most  frequent- 
ly, indeed,  by  the  side  of  his  own  sitting-room  fire,  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  maintaining  the  pleasing  antithesis  of  dryness 
and  moisture  by  an  occasional  sip  of  gin  and-water. 

Here  I  am  aware  that  I  have  run  the  risk  of  alienating  all 
my  refined  lady-readers,  and  utterly  annihilating  any  curiosity 
they  may  have  felt  to  know  the  details  of  Mr.  Gilfil's  love-story. 
"  Gin-and-water !  foh !  you  may  as  well  ask  us  to  interest  our- 
selves in  the  romance  of  a  tallow-chandler,  who  mingles  the 
image  of  his  beloved  with  short  dips  and  moulds." 

But  in  the  first  place,  dear  ladies,  allow  me  to  plead  that 
gin-aud-water,  like  obesity,  or  baldness,  or  the  gout,  does  not 
exclude  a  vast  amount  of  antecedent  romance,  any  more  than 
the  neatly  executed  "  fronts  "  which  you  may  some  day  wear, 
will  exclude  your  present  possession  of  less  expensive  braids. 
Alas,  alas !  we  poor  mortals  are  often  little  better  than  wood- 
ashes — there  is  small  sign  of  the  sap,  and  the  leafy  freshness, 
and  the  bursting  buds  that  were  once  there ;  but  wherever  we 
see  wood-ashes,  we  know  that  all  that  early  fulness  of  life 
must  have  been.  I,  at  least,  hardly  ever  look  at  a  bent  old 
man,  or  a  wizened  old  woman,  but  I  see  also,  with  my  mind's 
eye,  that  Past  of  which  they  are  the  shrunken  remnant,  and 
the  unfinished  romance  of  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  seems 
sometimes  of  feeble  interest  and  significance,  compared  with 
that  drama  of  hope  and  love  which  has  long  ago  reached  its 
catastrophe,  and  left  the  poor  soul,  like  a  dim  and  dusty 
stage,  with  all  its  sweet  garden-scenes  and  fair  perspectives 
overturned  and  thrust  out  of  sight. 

In  the  second  place,  let  me  assure  you  that  Mr.  Gilfil's  po- 


88  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tations  of  gin-and-water  were  quite  moderate.  His  nose  was 
not  rubicund ;  on  the  contrary,  his  white  hair  hung  around  a 
pale  and  venerable  face.  He  drank  it  chieity,  I  believe,  be- 
cause it  was  cheap ;  and  here  I  find  myself  alighting  on  another 
of  the  Vicar's  weaknesses,  which,  if  I  had  cared  to  paint  a 
flattering  portrait  rather  than  a  faithful  one,  I  might  have 
chosen  to  suppress.  It  is  undeniable  that,  as  the  years  ad- 
vanced, Mr.  Gilfil  became,  as  Mr.  Hackit  observed,  more  and 
more  "close-listed,"  though  the  growing  propensity  showed 
itself  rather  in  the  parsimony  of  his  personal  habits,  than  in 
withholding  help  from  the  needy.  He  was  saving — so  he 
represented  the  matter  to  himself — for  a  nephew,  the  only  son 
of  a  sister  who  had  been  the  dearest  object,  all  but  one,  in  his 
life.  "  The  lad, "  he  thought,  "  will  have  a  nice  little  fortune 
to  begin  life  with,  and  will  bring  his  pretty  young  wife  some 
day  to  see  the  spot  where  his  old  uncle  lies.  It  will  perhaps 
be  all  the  better  for  his  hearth  that  mine  was  lonely." 

Mr.  Gilfil  was  a  bachelor,  then? 

That  is  the  conclusion  to  which  you  would  probably  have 
come  if  you  had  entered  his  sitting-room,  where  the  bare 
tables,  the  large  old-fashioued  horse-hair  chairs,  and  the 
threadbare  Turkey  carpet  perpetually  fumigated  with  tobacco, 
seemed  to  tell  a  story  of  wifeless  existence  that  was  contra- 
dicted by  no  portrait,  no  piece  of  embroidery,  no  faded  bit  of 
pretty  triviality,  hinting  of  taper-fingers  and  small  feminine 
ambitions.  And  it  was  here  that  Mr.  Gilfil  passed  his  even- 
ings, seldom  with  other  society  than  that  of  Ponto,  his  old 
brown  setter,  who,  stretched  out  at  full  length  011  the  rug  with 
his  nose  between  his  fore-paws,  would  wrinkle  his  brows  and 
lift  up  his  eyelids  every  now  and  then,  to  exchange  a  glance 
of  mutual  understanding  with  his  master.  But  there  was  a 
chamber  in  Shepperton  Vicarage  which  told  a  different  story 
from  that  bare  and  cheerless  dining-room — a  chamber  never 
entered  by  any  one  besides  Mr.  Gilfil  and  old  Martha  the 
housekeeper,  who,  with  David  her  husband  as  groom  and  gar- 
dener, formed  the  Vicar's  entire  establishment.  The  blinds 
of  this  chamber  were  always  down,  except  once  a  quarter, 
when  Martha  entered  that  she  might  air  and  clean  it.  She 
always  asked  Mr.  Gilfil  for  the  key,  which  he  kept  locked  up 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  89 

in  his  bureau,  and  returned  it  to  him  when  she  had  finished 
her  task. 

It  was  a  touching  sight  that  the  daylight  streamed  in  upon, 
as  Martha  drew  aside  the  blinds  and  thick  curtains,  and 
opened  the  Gothic  casement  of  the  oriel  window !  On  the  lit- 
tle dressing-table  there  was  a  dainty  looking-glass  in  a  carved 
and  gilt  frame ;  bits  of  wax-candle  were  still  in  the  branched 
sockets  at  the  sides,  and  on  one  of  these  branches  hung  a  little 
black  lace  kerchief;  a  faded  satin  pin-cushion,  with  the  pins 
rusted  in  it,  a  scent-bottle,  and  a  large  green  fan,  lay  on  the 
table;  and  on  a  dressing-box  by  the  side  of  the  glass  was  a 
work-basket,  and  an  unfinished  baby-cap,  yellow  with  age, 
lying  in  it.  Two  gowns,  of  a  fashion  long  forgotten,  were 
hanging  on  nails  against  the  door,  and  a  pair  of  tiny  red  slip- 
pers, with  a  bit  of  tarnished  silver  embroidery  on  them,  were 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Two  or  three  water-color 
drawings,  views  of  Naples,  hung  upon  the  walls ;  and  over  the 
mantelpiece,  above  some  bits  of  rare  old  china,  two  minia- 
tures in  oval  frames.  One  of  these  miniatures  represented  a 
young  man  about  seven  and  twenty,  with  a  sanguine  complex- 
ion, full  lips,  and  clear  candid  gray  eyes.  The  other  was  the 
likeness  of  a  girl  probably  not  more  than  eighteen,  with  small 
features,  thin  cheeks,  a  pale  southern-looking  complexion, 
and  large  dark  eyes.  The  gentleman  wore  powder;  the  lady 
had  her  dark  hair  gathered  away  from  her  face,  and  a  little 
cap,  with  a  cherry-colored  bow,  set  on  the  top  of  her  head — 
a  coquettish  head-dress,  but  the  eyes  spoke  of  sadness  rather 
than  of  coquetry. 

Such  were  the  things  that  Martha  had  dusted  and  let  the 
air  upon,  four  times  a  year,  ever  since  she  was  a  blooming 
lass  of  twenty ;  and  she  was  now,  in  this  last  decade  of  Mr. 
Gilfil's  life,  unquestionably  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty.  Such 
was  the  locked-up  chamber  in  Mr.  Gilfil's  house:  a  sort  of 
visible  symbol  of  the  secret  chamber  in  his  heart,  where 
he  had  long  turned  the  key  on  early  hopes  and  early  sor- 
rows, shutting  up  forever  all  the  passion  and  the  poetry  of 
his  life. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  parish,  besides  Martha, 
who  had  any  very  distinct  remembrance  of  Mr.  Gilfil's  wife, 


90  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

or  indeed  who  knew  an}7  thing  of  her,  beyond  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  marble  tablet,  with  a  Latin  inscription  in  memory 
of  her,  over  the  vicarage  pew.  The  parishioners  who  were 
old  enough  to  remember  her  arrival  were  not  generally  gifted 
with  descriptive  powers,  and  the  utmost  you  could  gather  from 
them  was,  that  Mrs.  Gilfil  looked  like  a  "  furriner,  wi'  such 
eyes,  you  can't  think,  an'  a  voice  as  went  through  you  when 
she  sung  at  church."  The  one  exception  was  Mrs.  Patten, 
whose  strong  memory  and  taste  for  personal  narrative  made 
her  a  great  source  of  oral  tradition  in  Shepperton.  Mr. 
Hackit,  who  had  not  come  into  the  parish  until  ten  years  after 
Mrs.  Gilfil' s  death,  would  often  put  old  questions  to  Mrs.  Pat- 
ten for  the  sake  of  getting  the  old  answers,  which  pleased  him 
in  the  same  way  as  passages  from  a  favorite  book,  or  the 
scenes  of  a  familiar  play,  please  more  accomplished  people. 

"Ah,  you  remember  well  the  Sunday  as  Mrs.  Gilfil  first 
come  to  church,  eh,  Mrs.  Patten?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  It  was  a  fine  bright  Sunday  as  ever  was 
seen,  just  at  the  beginnin'  o'  hay  harvest.  Mr.  Tarbett 
preached  that  day,  and  Mr.  Gilfil  sat  i'  the  pew  with  his 
wife.  I  think  I  see  him  now,  a-leading  her  up  the  aisle,  an' 
her  head  not  reachin'  much  above  his  elber:  a  little  pale 
woman,  with  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  an'  yet  lookin'  blank- 
like,  as  if  she  see'd  nothing  with  'em." 

"I  warrant  she  had  her  weddin'  clothes  on?"  said  Mrs. 
Hackit. 

"Nothin'  partickler  smart — on'y  a  white  hat  tied  down 
under  her  chin,  an'  a  white  Indy  muslin  gown.  But  you 
don't  know  what  Mr.  Gilfil  was  in  those  times.  He  was  fine 
an'  altered  before  you  come  into  the  parish.  He'd  a  fresh 
color  then,  an'  a  bright  look  wi'  his  eyes,  as  did  your  heart 
good  to  see.  He  looked  rare  and  happy  that  Sunday;  but 
somehow,  I'd  a  feelin'  a*s  it  wouldn't  last  long.  I've  no  opin- 
ion o'  furriners,  Mr.  Hackit,  for  I've  travelled  i'  their  country 
with  my  lady  in  my  time,  an'  seen  enough  o'  their  victuals 
an'  their  nasty  ways." 

"Mrs.  Gilfil  come  from  It'ly,  didn't  she?" 

"  I  reckon  she  did,  but  I  niver  could  rightly  hear  about 
that.  Mr.  Gifil  was  niver  to  be  spoke  to  about  her,  and  no- 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  91 

body  else  hereabout  knowed  any  thin'.  Howiver,  she  must 
ha'  come  over  pretty  young,  for  she  spoke  English  as  well  as 
you  an'  me.  It's  them  Italians  as  has  such  fine  voices,  an' 
Mrs.  Gilfil  sung,  you  never  beared  the  like.  He  brought  her 
here  to  have  tea  with  me  one  afternoon,  and  says  he,  in  his 
jovial  way,  (  Now,  Mrs.  Patten,  I  want  Mrs.  Gilfil  to  see  the 
neatest  house,  and  drink  the  best  cup  o'  tea,  in  all  Shepper- 
ton ;  you  must  show  her  your  dairy  and  your  cheese-room,  and 
then  she  shall  sing  you  a  song.'  An'  so  she  did;  an'  her 
voice  seemed  sometimes  to  rill  the  room ;  an'  then  it  went  low 
an'  soft  as  if  it  was  whisperin'  close  to  your  heart  like." 

"  You  never  beared  her  again,  I  reckon?  " 

"  No :  she  was  sickly  then,  and  she  died  in  a  few  months 
after.  She  wasn't  in  the  parish  much  more  nor  half  a  year 
altogether.  She  didn't  seem  lively  that  afternoon,  an'  I  could 
see  she  didn't  care  about  the  dairy,  nor  the  cheeses,  on'y  she 
pretended,  to  please  him.  As  for  him,  I  niver  see'd  a  man  so 
wrapt  up  in  a  woman.  He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  was  worship- 
in  n'  her,  an'. as  if  he  wanted  to  lift  her  off  the  ground  ivery 
minute,  to  save  her  the  trouble  o'  walkin' .  Poor  man,  poor 
man !  It  had  liked  to  ha'  killed  him  when  she  died,  though 
he  niver  gev  way,  but  went  on  ridin'  about  and  preachin'. 
But  he  was  wore  to  a  shadow,  an'  his  eyes  used  to  look  as 
dead — you  wouldn't  ha'  knowed  'em." 

"  She  brought  him  no  fortin?  " 

'•Not  she.  All  Mr.  Gilfil's  property  come  by  his  mother's 
side.  There  was  blood  an'  money  too,  there.  It's  a  thou- 
sand pities  as  he  married  i'  that  way — a  fine  man  like 
him,  as  might  ha'  had  the  pick  o'  the  county,  an'  had  his 
grandchildren  about  him  now.  An'  him  so  fond  o'  chil- 
dren, too." 

In  this  manner  Mrs.  Patten  usually  wound  up  her  reminis- 
cences of  the  Vicar's  wife,  of  whom,  you  perceive,  she  knew 
but  little.  It  was  clear  that  the  communicative  old  lady  had 
nothing  to  tell  of  Mrs.  Gilfil's  history  previous  to  her  arrival 
in  Shepperton,  and  that  she  was  unacquainted  with  Mr.  Gil- 
fil's love-story. 

But  I,  dear  reader,  am  quite  as  communicative  as  Mrs.  Pat- 
ten, and  much  better  informed;  so  that,  if  you  care  to  know 


92  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

more  about  the  Vicar's  courtship  and  marriage,  you  need  only 
carry  your  imagination  back  to  the  latter  end  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, and  your  attention  forward  into  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  the  evening  of  the  21st  of  June,  1788.  The  day  has 
been  bright  and  sultry,  and  the  sun  will  still  be  more  than  an 
hour  above  the  horizon,  but  his  rays,  broken  by  the  leafy  fret- 
work of  the  elms  that  border  the  park,  no  longer  prevent  two 
ladies  from  carrying  out  their  cushions  and  embroidery,  and 
seating  themselves  to  work  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  Cheverel 
Manor.  The  soft  turf  gives  way  even  under  the  fairy  tread  of 
the  younger  lady,  whose  small  stature  and  slim  figure  rest  on 
the  tiniest  of  full-grown  feet.  She  trips  along  before  the 
elder,  carrying  the  cushions,  which  she  places  in  the  favorite 
spot,  just  on  the  slope  by  a  clump  of  laurels  where  the}'  can 
see  the  sunbeams  sparkling  among  the  water-lilies,  and  can  be 
themselves  seen  from  the  dining-room  windows.  She  has  de- 
posited the  cushions,  and  now  turns  round,  so  that  you  may 
have  a  full  view  of  her  as  she  stands  waiting  the  slower  ad- 
vance of  the  elder  lady.  You  are  at  once  arrested  by  her  large 
dark  eyes,  which,  in  their  inexpressive  unconscious  beauty, 
resemble  the  eyes  of  a  fawn,  and  it  is  only  by  an  effort  of  at- 
tention that  you  notice  the  absence  of  bloom  on  her  young 
cheek,  and  the  southern  yellowish  tint  of  her  small  neck  and 
face,  rising  above  the  little  black  lace  kerchief  which  prevents 
the  too  immediate  comparison  of  her  skin  with  her  white  mus- 
lin gown.  Her  large  eyes  seem  all  the  more  striking  because 
the  dark  hair  is  gathered  away  from  her  face,  under  a  little 
cap  set  at  the  top  of  her  head,  with  a  cherry-colored  bow  on 
one  side. 

The  elder  lady,  who  is  advancing  toward  the  cushions,  is 
cast  in  a  very  different  mould  of  womanhood.  She  is  tall,  and 
looks  the  taller  because  her  powdered  hair  is  turned  backward 
over  a  toupee,  and  surmounted  by  lace  and  ribbons.  She  is 
nearly  fifty,  but  her  complexion  is  still  fresh  and  beautiful, 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  93 

with  the  beauty  of  an  auburn  blonde ;  her  proud  pouting  lips, 
and  her  head  thrown  a  little  backward  as  she  walks,  give  an 
expression  of  hauteur  which  is  not  contradicted  by  the  cold 
gray  eye.  The  tucked-in  kerchief,  rising  full  over  the  low 
tight  bodice  of  her  blue  dress,  sets  off  the  majestic  form  of  her 
bust,  and  she  treads  the  lawn  as  if  she  were  one  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds' s  stately  ladies,  who  had  suddenly  stepped  from  her 
frame  to  enjoy  the  evening  cool. 

"  Put  the  cushions  lower,  Caterina,  that  we  may  not  have 
so  much  sun  upon  us, "  she  called  out,  in  a  tone  of  authority, 
when  still  at  some  distance. 

Caterina  obeyed,  and  they  sat  down,  making  two  bright 
patches  of  red  and  white  and  blue  on  the  green  background  of 
the  laurels  and  the  lawn,  which  would  look  none  the  less 
pretty  in  a  picture  because  one  of  the  women's  hearts  was 
rather  cold  and  the  other  rather  sad. 

And  a  charming  picture  Cheverel  Manor  would  have  made 
that  evening,  if  some  English  Watteau  had  been  there  to  paint 
it :  the  castellated  house  of  gray -tinted  stone,  with  the  flicker- 
ing sunbeams  sending  dashes  of  golden  light  across  the  many- 
shaped  panes  in  the  mullioned  windows,  and  a  great  beech 
leaning  athwart  one  of  the  flanking  towers,  and  breaking,  with 
its  dark  flattened  boughs,  the  too  formal  symmetry  of  the 
front ;  the  broad  gravel-walk,  winding,  on  the  right,  by  a  row 
of  tall  pines,  alongside  the  pool — on  the  left  branching  out 
among  swelling  grassy  mounds,  surmounted  by  clumps  of  trees, 
where  the  red  trunk  of  the  Scotch  fir  glows  in  the  descending 
sunlight  against  the  bright  green  of  limes  and  acacias;  the 
great  pool,  where  a  pair  of  swans  are  swimming  lazily  with 
one  leg  tucked  under  a  wing,  and  where  the  open  water-lilies 
lie  calmly  accepting  the  kisses  of  the  fluttering  light-sparkles ; 
the  lawn,  with  its  smooth  emerald  greenness,  sloping  down  to 
the  rougher  and  browner  herbage  of  the  park,  from  which  it 
is  invisibly  fenced  by  a  little  stream  that  winds  away  from  the 
pool,  and  disappears  under  a  wooden  bridge  in  the  distant 
pleasure-ground ;  and  on  this  lawn  our  two  ladies,  whose  part 
in  the  landscape  the  painter,  standing  at  a  favorable  point  of 
view  in  the  park,  would  represent  with  a  few  little  dabs  of  red 
and  white  and  blue. 


94  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Seen  from  the  great  Gothic  windows  of  the  dining-room, 
they  had  much  more  definiteness  of  outline,  and  were  distinctly 
visible  to  the  three  gentlemen  sipping  their  claret  there,  as 
two  fair  women  in  whom  all  three  had  a  personal  interest. 
These  gentlemen  were  a  group  worth  considering  attentively ; 
but  any  cue  entering  that  dining-room  for  the  first  time,  would 
perhaps  have  had  his  attention 'even  more  strongly  arrested  by 
the  room  itself,  which  was  so  bare  of  furniture  that  it  impressed 
one  with  its  architectural  beauty  like  a  cathedral.  A  piece  of 
matting  stretched  from  door  to  door,  a  bit  of  worn  carpet  under 
the  dining-table,  and  a  sideboard  in  a  deep  recess,  did  not  de- 
tain the  eye  for  a  moment  from  the  lofty  groined  ceiling,  with 
its  richly  carved  pendants,  all  of  creamy  white,  relieved  here 
and  there  by  touches  of  gold.  On  one  side,  this  lofty  ceiling 
was  supported  by  pillars  and  arches,  beyond  which  a  lower 
ceiling,  a  miniature  copy  of  the  higher  one,  covered  the  square 
projection  which,  with  its  three  large  pointed  windows,  formed 
the  central  feature  of  the  building.  The  room  looked  less  like 
a  place  to  dine  in  than  a  piece  of  space  enclosed  simply  for  the 
sake  of  beautiful  outline ;  and  the  small  dining-table,  with  the 
party  round  it,  seemed  an  odd  and  insignificant  accident, 
rather  than  anything  connected  with  the  original  purpose  of 
the  apartment. 

But,  examined  closely,  that  group  was  far  from  insignifi- 
cant; for  the  eldest,  who  was  reading  in  the  newspaper  the 
last  portentous  proceedings  of  the  French  parliaments,  and 
turning  with  occasional  comments  to  his  young  companions, 
was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the  old  English  gentleman  as  could 
well  have  been  found  in  those  venerable  days  of  cocked-hats 
and  pigtails.  His  dark  eyes  sparkled  under  projecting  brows, 
made  more  prominent  by  bushy  grizzled  eyebrows;  but  any 
apprehension  of  severity  excited  by  these  penetrating  eyes, 
and  by  a  somewhat  aquiline  nose,  was  allayed  by  the  good- 
natured  lines  about  the  mouth,  which  retained  all  its  teeth  and 
its  vigor  of  expression  in  spite  of  sixty  winters.  The  forehead 
sloped  a  little  from  the  projecting  brows,  and  its  peaked  out- 
line was  made  conspicuous  by  the  arrangement  of  the  profusely 
powdered  hair  drawn  backward  and  gathered  into  a  pigtail. 
He  sat  in  a  small  hard  chair,  which  did  not  admit  the  slight- 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  95 

est  approach  to  a  lounge,  and  which  showed  to  advantage  the 
flatness  of  his  back  and  the  breadth  of  his  chest.  In  fact,  Sir 
Christopher  Cheverel  was  a  splendid  old  gentleman,  as  any 
one  may  see  who  enters  the  saloon  at  Cheverel  Manor,  where 
his  full-length  portrait,  taken  when  he  was  fifty,  hangs  side 
by  side  with  that  of  his  wife,  the  stately  lady  seated  on  the 
lawn. 

Looking  at  Sir  Christopher,  you  would  at  once  have  been 
inclined  to  hope  that  he  had  a  full-grown  son  and  heir ;  but 
perhaps  you  would  have  wished  that  it  might  not  prove  to  be 
the  young  man  on  his  right  hand,  in  whom  a  certain  resem- 
blance to  the  Baronet,  in  the  contour  of  the  nose  and  brow, 
seemed  to  indicate  a  family  relationship.  If  this  young  man 
had  been  less  elegant  in  his  person,  he  would  have  been  re- 
marked for  the  elegance  of  his  dress.  But  the  perfections  of 
his  slim,  well-proportioned  figure  were  so  striking  that  no  one 
but  a  tailor  could  notice  the  perfections  of  his  velvet  coat ;  and 
his  small  white  hands,  with  their  blue  veins  and  taper  fingers, 
quite  eclipsed  the  beauty  of  his  lace  ruffles.  The  face,  how- 
ever— it  was  difficult  to  say  why — was  certainly  not  pleasing. 
Nothing  could  be  more  delicate  than  the  blond  complexion — 
its  bloom  set  off  by  the  powdered  hair — than  the  veined  over- 
hanging eyelids,  which  gave  an  indolent  expression  to  the 
hazel  eyes ;  nothing  more  finely  cut  than  the  transparent  nos- 
tril and  the  short  upper  lip.  Perhaps  the  chin  and  lower  jaw 
were  too  small  for  an  irreproachable  profile,  but  the  defect  was 
on  the  side  of  that  delicacy  and  finesse  which  was  the  distinc- 
tive characteristic  of  the  whole  person,  and  which  was  carried 
out  in  the  clear  brown  arch  of  the  eyebrows,  and  the  marble 
smoothness  of  the  sloping  forehead.  Impossible  to  say  that 
this  face  was  not  eminently  handsome;  yet,  for  the  majority, 
both  of  men  and  women,  it  was  destitute  of  charm.  Women 
disliked  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  indolently  accepting  admira- 
tion instead  of  rendering  it;  and  men,  especially  if  they  had  a 
tendency  to  clumsiness  in  the  nose  and  ankles,  were  inclined 
to  think  this  Antinous  in  a  pigtail  a  "  confounded  puppy. "  I 
fancy  that  was  frequently  the  inward  interjection  of  the  Rev. 
Maynard  Gilfil,  who  was  seated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
dining-table,  though  Mr.  GilfiFs  legs  and  profile  were  not  at 


96  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

all  of  a  kind  to  make  him  peculiarly  alive  to  the  impertinence 
and  frivolity  of  personal  advantages.  His  healthy  open  face  and 
robust  limbs  were  after  an  excellent  pattern  for  every-day  wear, 
and,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Bates,  the  north-country  gardener, 
would  have  become  regimentals  "  a  fain  saight "  better  than  the 
"  peaky  "  features  and  slight  form  of  Captain  Wybrow,  not- 
withstanding that  this  young  gentleman,  as  Sir  Christopher's 
nephew  and  destined  heir,  had  the  strongest  hereditary  claim 
on  the  gardener's  respect,  and  was  undeniably  "  clean-limbed." 
But,  alas !  human  longings  are  perversely  obstinate ;  and  to  the 
man  whose  mouth  is  watering  for  a  peach,  it  is  of  no  use  to 
offer  the  largest  vegetable  marrow.  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  sensi- 
tive to  Mr.  Bates' s  opinion,  whereas  he  was  sensitive  to  the 
opinion  of  another  person,  who  by  no  means  shared  Mr.  Bates's 
preference. 

Who  the  other  person  was  it  would  not  have  required  a  very 
keen  observer  to  guess,  from  a  certain  eagerness  in  Mr.  Gilfil's 
glance  as  that  little  figure  in  white  tripped  along  the  lawn 
with  the  cushions.  Captain  Wybrow,  too,  was  looking  in  the 
same  direction,  but  his  handsome  face  remained  handsome — 
and  nothing  more. 

"Ah,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  from  his  paper, 
"there's  my  lady.  Eing  for  coffee,  Anthony;  we'll  go  and 
join  her,  and  the  little  monkey  Tina  shall  give  vis  a  song. " 

The  coffee  presently  appeared,  brought — not  as  usual  by  the 
footman,  in  scarlet  and  drab,  but — by  the  old  butler,  in  thread- 
bare but  well-brushed  black,  who,  as  he  was  placing  it  on  the 
table,  said: 

"If  you  please,  Sir  Christopher,  there's  the  widow  Hartopp 
a-crying  i'  the  still-room,  and  begs  leave  to  see  your  honor." 

"  I  have  given  Markham  full  orders  about  the  widow  Har- 
topp," said  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  sharp,  decided  tone.  "I 
have  nothing  to  say  to  her." 

"  Your  honor, "  pleaded  the  butler,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
putting  on  an  additional  coating  of  humility,  "  the  poor  wom- 
an's  dreadful  overcome,  and  says  she  can't  sleep  a  wink  this 
blessed  night  without  seeing  your  honor,  and  she  begs  you  to 
pardon  the  great  freedom  she's  took  to  come  at  this  time. 
She  cries  fit  to  break  her  heart." 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  97" 

"Ay,  ay;  water  pays  no  tax.  Well,  show  her  into  the 
library." 

Coffee  despatched,  the  two  young  men  walked  out  through 
the  open  window,  and  joined  the  ladies  on  the  lawn,  while  Sir 
Christopher  made  his  way  to  the  library,  solemnly  followed  by 
Rupert,  his  pet  bloodhound,  who,  in  his  habitual  place  at  the 
Baronet's  right  hand,  behaved  with  great  urbanity  during  din- 
ner; but  when  the  cloth  was  drawn,  invariably  disappeared 
under  the  table,  apparently  regarding  the  claret-jug  as  a  mere 
human  weakness,  which  he  winked  at,  but  refused  to  sanction. 

The  library  lay  but  three  steps  from  the  dining-room,  on 
the  other  side  of  a  cloistered  and  matted  passage.  The  oriel 
window  was  overshadowed  by  the  great  beech,  and  this,  with 
the  flat,  heavily  carved  ceiling  and  the  dark  hue  of  the  old 
books  that  lined  the  walls,  made  the  room  look  sombre,  espe- 
cially on  entering  it  from  the  dining-room,  with  its  aerial 
curves  and  cream-colored  fretwork  touched  with  gold.  As  Sir 
Christopher  opened  the  door,  a  jet  of  brighter  light  fell  on  a 
woman  in  a  widow's  dress,  who  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  made  the  deepest  of  courtesies  as  he  entered.  She 
v,-as  a  buxom  woman  approaching  forty,  her  eyes  red  with  the 
tears  which  had  evidently  been  absorbed  by  the  handkerchief 
gathered  into  a  damp  ball  in  her  right  hand. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Hartopp, "  said  Sir  Christopher,  taking  out  his 
gold  snuff-box  and  tapping  the  lid,  "  what  have  you  to  say  to 
me?  Markham  has  delivered  you  a  notice  to  quit,  I  suppose?  " 

"O  yis,  your  honor,  an'  that's  the  reason  why  I've  come. 
I  hope  your  honor  '11  think  better  on  it,  an'  not  turn  me  an' 
my  poor  children  out  o'  the  farm,  where  my  husband  al'ys 
paid  his  rent  as  reg'lar  as  the  day  come." 

"  Nonsense !  I  should  like  to  know  what  good  it  will  do  you 
and  your  children  to  stay  on  a  farm  and  lose  every  farthing 
your  husband  has  left  you,  instead  of  selling  your  stock  and 
going  into  some  little  place  where  you  can  keep  your  money 
together.  It  is  very  well  known  to  every  tenant  of  mine  that 
I  never  allow  widows  to  stay  on  their  husbands'  farms." 

"  0,  Sir  Christifer,  if  you  would  consider — when  I've  sold 
the  hay  an'  corn  an'  all  the  live  things,  an'  paid  the  debts, 
an'  put  the  money  out  to  use,  I  shall  have  hardly  enough  to 


98  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

keep  our  souls  an'  bodies  together.  An'  how  can  I  rear  my 
boys  and  put  'em  'prentice?  They  must  go  for  day-laborers, 
an'  their  father  a  man  wi'  as  good  belongings  as  any  on  your 
honor's  estate,  an'  niver  threshed  his  wheat  afore  it  was  well 
i'  the  rick,  nor  sold  the  straw  off  his  farm,  nor  nothin'.  Ask 
all  the  farmers  round  if  there  was  a  stiddier,  soberer  man  than 
my  husband  as  attended  Ripstone  market.  An'  he  says, 
'  Bessie,'  says  he — them  was  his  last  words — '  you'll  mek  a 
shift  to  manage  the  farm,  if  Sir  Christif er  'ull  let  you  stay  on. ' ' 

"Pooh,  pooh !"  said  Sir  Christopher,  Mrs.  Hartopp's  sobs 
having  interrupted  her  pleadings,  "  now  listen  to  me,  and  try 
to  understand  a  little  common  sense.  You  are  about  as  able 
to  manage  the  farm  as  your  best  milch  cow.  You'll  be  obliged 
to  have  some  managing  man,  who  will  either  cheat  you  out  of 
your  money,  or  wheedle  you  into  marrying  him." 

"  0,  your  honor,  I  was  never  that  sort  o'  woman,  an'  nobody 
has  known  it  on  me." 

"  Very  likely  not,  because  you  were  never  a  widow  before. 
A  woman's  always  silly  enough,  but  she's  never  quite  as  great 
a  fool  as  she  can  be  until  she  puts  on  a  widow's  cap.  Now, 
just  ask  yourself  how  much  the  better  you  will  be  for  staying 
on  your  farm  at  the  end  of  four  years,  when  you've  got  through 
your  money,  and  let  your  farm  run  down,  and  are  in  arrears 
for  half  your  rent ;  or,  perhaps,  have  got  some  great  hulky  fel- 
low for  a  husband,  who  swears  at  you  and  kicks  your  chil- 
dren." 

"  Indeed,  Sir  Christifer,  I  know  a  deal  o'  f armin',  an'  was 
brought  up  i'  the  thick  on  it,  as  you  may  say.  An'  there  was 
my  husband's  great-aunt  managed  a  farm  for  twenty  year,  an' 
left  legacies  to  all  her  nephys  an'  nieces,  an'  even  to  my  hus- 
band, as  was  then  a  babe  unborn." 

"  Pshaw !  a  woman  six  feet  high,  with  a  squint  and  sharp 
elbows,  I  dare  say — a  man  in  petticoats.  Not  a  rosy-cheeked 
widow  like  you,  Mrs.  Hartopp." 

"  Indeed,  your  honor,  I  never  heard  of  her  squintin',  an' 
they  said  as  she  might  ha'  been  married  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
to  people  as  had  no  call  to  hanker  after  her  money. " 

"  Ay,  ay,  that's  what  you  all  think.  Every  man  that  looks 
at  you  wants  to  marry  you,  and  would  like  you  the  better  the 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  99 

more  children  you  have  and  the  less  money.  But  it  is  useless 
to  talk  and  cry.  I  have  good  reasons  for  my  plans,  and  never 
alter  them.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  your 
stock,  and  to  look  out  for  some  little  place  to  go  to,  when  you 
leave  The  Hollows.  Now,  go  back  to  Mrs.  Bellamy's  room, 
and  ask  her  to  give  you  a  dish  of  tea." 

Mrs.  Hartopp,  understanding  from  Sir  Christopher's  tone 
that  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  courtesied  low  and  left  the 
library,  while  the  Baronet,  seating  himself  at  his  desk  in  the 
oriel  window,  wrote  the  following  letter : 

MR.  MAKKHAM, — Take  no  steps  about  letting  Crowsfoot  Cottage,  as  I 
intend  to  put  in  the  widow  Hartopp  when  she  leaves  her  farm;  and  if 
you  will  be  here  at  eleven  on  Saturday  morning,  I  will  ride  round  with 
yon.  and  settle  about  making  some  repairs,  and  see  about  adding  a  bit  of 
land  to  the  take,  as  she  will  want  to  keep  a  cow  and  some  pigs. 
Yours  faithfully, 

CHRISTOPHER  CHKVEREL. 

After  ringing  the  bell  and  ordering  this  letter  to  be  sent,  Sir 
Christopher  walked  out  to  join  the  party  on  the  lawn.  But 
rinding  the  cushions  deserted,  he  walked  on  to  the  eastern 
front  of  the  building,  where,  by  the  side  of  the  grand  entrance, 
was  the  large  bow-window  of  the  saloon,  opening  on  to  the 
gravel-sweep,  and  looking  toward  a  long  vista  of  undulating 
turf,  bordered  by  tall  trees,  which,  seeming  to  unite  itself  with 
the  green  of  the  meadows  and  a  grassy  road  through  a  planta- 
tion, only  terminated  with  the  Gothic  arch  of  a  gateway  in  the 
far  distance.  The  bow-window  was  open,  and  Sir  Christo- 
pher, stepping  in,  found  the  group  he  sought,  examining  the 
progress  of  the  unfinished  ceiling.  It  was  in  the  same  style 
of  florid  pointed  Gothic  as  the  dining-room,  but  more  elaborate 
in  its  tracery,  which  was  like  petrified  lace-work  picked  out 
v/ith  delicate  and  varied  coloring.  About  a  fourth  of  it  still 
remained  uncolored,  and  under  this  part  were  scaffolding,  lad- 
ders, and  tools ;  otherwise  the  spacious  saloon  was  empty  of 
furniture,  and  seemed  to  be  a  grand  Gothic  canopy  for  the 
group  of  five  human  figures  standing  in  the  centre. 

"  Francesco  has  been  getting  on  a  little  better  the  last  day 
or  two,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  joined  the  party:  "he's  a 
sad  lazy  dog,  and  I  fancy  he  has  a  knack  of  sleeping  as  he 


100  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

stands,  with  his  brushes  in  his  hands.  But  I  must  spur  him 
on,  or  we  may  not  have  the  scaffolding  cleared  away  before 
the  bride  comes,  if  you  show  dexterous  generalship  in  your 
wooing,  eh,  Anthony?  and  take  your  Magdeburg  quickly." 

"  Ah,  sir,  a  siege  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  tedious 
operations  in  war,"  said  Captain  Wybrow,  with  an  easy  smile. 

"Not  when  there's  a  traitor  within  the  walls  in  the  shape 
of  a  soft  heart.  And  that  there  will  be,  if  Beatrice  has  her 
mother's  tenderness  as  well  as  her  mother's  beauty." 

"  What  do  you  think,  Sir  Christopher, "  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
who  seemed  to  wince  a  little  under  her  husband's  reminiscences, 
"of  hanging  Guercino's  'Sibyl'  over  that  door  when  we  put 
up  the  pictures?  It  is  rather  lost  in  my  sitting-room." 

"  Very  good,  my  love, "  answered  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  tone 
of  punctiliously  polite  affection ;  "  if  you  like  to  part  with  the 
ornament  from  your  own  room,  it  will  show  admirably  here. 
Our  portraits,  by  Sir  Joshua,  will  hang  opposite  the  window, 
and  the  '  Transfiguration  '  at  that  end.  You  see,  Anthony,  I 
am  leaving  no  good  places  on  the  walls  for  you  and  your  wife. 
We  shall  turn  you  with  your  faces  to  the  wall  in  the  gallery, 
and  you  may  take  your  revenge  on  us  by  and  by." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Mr.  Gilfil  turned  to 
Caterina  and  said : 

"  I  like  the  view  from  this  window  better  than  any  other  in 
the  house." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filling 
with  tears ;  so  he  added :  "  Suppose  we  walk  out  a  little ;  Sir 
Christopher  and  my  lady  seem  to  be  occupied." 

Caterina  complied  silently,  and  they  turned  down  one  of 
the  gravel  walks  that  led,  after  many  windings  under  tall 
trees  and  among  grassy  openings,  to  a  large  enclosed  flower- 
garden.  Their  walk  was  perfectly  silent,  for  Maynard  Gilfil 
knew  that  Caterina' s  thoughts  were  not  with  him,  and  she  had 
been  long  used  to  make  him  endure  the  weight  of  those  moods 
which  she  carefully  hid  from  others. 

They  reached  the  flower-garden,  and  turned  mechanically  in 
at  the  gate  that  opened,  through  a  high,  thick  hedge,  on  an 
expanse  of  brilliant  color,  which,  after  the  green  shades  they 
had  passed  through,  startled  the  eye  like  flames.  The  effect 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  101 

was  assisted  by  an  undulation  of  the  ground,  which  gradually 
descended  from  the  entrance-gate,  and  then  rose  again  toward 
the  opposite  end,  crowned  by  an  orangery.  The  flowers  were 
glowing  with  their  evening  splendors;  verbenas  and  helio- 
tropes were  sending  up  their  finest  incense.  It  seemed  a  gala 
where  all  was  happiness  and  brilliancy,  and  misery  could  find 
no  sympathy.  This  was  the  effect  it  had  on  Caterina.  As 
she  wound  among  the  beds  of  gold  and  blue  and  pink,  where 
the  flowers  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her  with  wondering  elf- 
like  eyes,  knowing  nothing  of  sorrow,  the  feeling  of  isolation  in 
her  wretchedness  overcame  her,  and  the  tears,  which  had  been 
before  trickling  slowly  down  her  pale  cheeks,  now  gushed  forth 
accompanied  with  sobs.  And  yet  there  was  a  loving  human 
being  close  beside  her,  whose  heart  was  aching  for  hers,  who 
was  possessed  by  the  feeling  that  she  was  miserable,  and  that 
he  was  helpless  to  soothe  her.  But  she  was  too  much  irritated 
"by  the  idea  that  his  wishes  were  different  from  hers,  that  he 
rather  regretted  the  folly  of  her  hopes  than  the  probability  of 
their  disappointment,  to  take  any  comfort  in  his  sympathy. 
Caterina,  like  the  rest  of  us,  turned  away  from  sympathy 
which  she  suspected  to  be  mingled  with  criticism,  as  the  child 
turns  away  from  the  sweetmeat  in  which  it  suspects  impercep- 
tible medicine. 

"Dear  Caterina,  I  think  I  hear  voices,"  said  Mr.  Gilfil; 
"  they  may  be  coming  this  way. " 

She  checked  herself  like  one  accustomed  to  conceal  her 
emotions,  and  ran  rapidly  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden, 
where  she  seemed  occupied  in  selecting  a  rose.  Presently 
Lady  Cheverel  entered,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Captain  Wy- 
brow,  and  followed  by  Sir  Christopher.  The  party  stopped  to 
admire  the  tiers  of  geraniums  near  the  gate;  and  in  the  mean- 
time Caterina  tripped  back  with  a  moss  rosebud  in  her  hand, 
and,  going  up  to  Sir  Christopher,  said — "  There,  Padroncello 
— there  is  a  nice  rose  for  your  button-hole." 

"  Ah,  you  black-eyed  monkey,"  he  said,  fondly  stroking  her 
cheek ;  "  so  you  have  been  running  off  with  Maynard,  either 
to  torment  or  coax  him  an  inch  or  two  deeper  into  love.  Come, 
come,  I  want  you  to  sing  us  ' Ho  p&rduto '  before  we  sit  down 
to  picquet.  Anthony  goes  to-morrow,  you  know;  you  must 


102  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

warble  him  into  the  right  sentimental  lover's  mood,  that  he 
may  acquit  himself  well  at  Bath."  He  put  her  little  arm  un- 
der his,  and  calling  to  Lady  Cheverel,  "  Come,  Henrietta !  " 
led  the  way  toward  the  house. 

The  party  entered  the  drawing-room,  which,  with  its  oriel 
window,  corresponded  to  the  library  in  the  other  wing,  and 
had  also  a  flat  ceiling  heavy  with  carving  and  blazonry ;  but  the 
window  being  unshaded,  and  the  walls  hung  with  full-length 
portraits  of  knights  and  dames  in  scarlet,  white,  and  gold,  it 
had  not  the  sombre  effect  of  the  library.  Here  hung  the  por- 
trait of  Sir  Anthony  Cheverel,  who  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 
was  the  renovator  of  the  family  splendor,  which  had  suffered 
some  declension  from  the  early  brilliancy  of  that  Chevreuil 
who  came  over  with  the  Conqueror.  A  very  imposing  person- 
age was  this  Sir  Anthony,  standing  with  one  arm  akimbo,  and 
one  fine  leg  and  foot  advanced,  evidently  with  a  view  to  the 
gratification  of  his  contemporaries  and  posterity.  You  might 
have  taken  off  his  splendid  peruke,  and  his  scarlet  cloak,  which 
was  thrown  backward  from  his  shoulders,  without  annihilating 
the  dignity  of  his  appearance.  And  he  had  known  how  to 
choose  a  wife,  too,  for  his  lady,  hanging  opposite  to  him,  with 
her  sunny  brown  hair  drawn  away  in  bands  from  her  mild 
grave  face,  and  falling  in  two  large  rich  curls  on  her  snowy, 
gently  sloping  neck,  which  shamed  the  harsher  hue  and  out- 
line of  her  white  satin  robe,  was  a  fit  mother  of  "  large-acred  " 
heirs. 

In  this  room  tea  was  served;  and  here,  every  evening,  as 
regularly  as  the  great  clock  in  the  court -yard  with  deliberate 
bass  tones  struck  nine,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  sat 
down  to  picquet  until  half -past  ten,  when  Mr.  Gilfil  read 
prayers  to  the  assembled  household  in  the  chapel. 

But  now  it  was  not  near  nine,  and  Caterina  must  sit  down 
to  the  harpsichord  and  sing  Sir  Christopher's  favorite  airs,  by 
Gluck  and  Paesiello,  whose  operas,  for  the  happiness  of  that 
generation,  were  then  to  be  heard  on  the  London  stage.  It 
happened  this  evening  that  the  sentiment  of  these  airs,  "  Che 
faro  senza  Eurydice  ?  "  and  "  Ho  perduto  il  bel  sembiante, "  in 
both  of  which  the  singer  pours  out  his  yearning  after  his  lost 
love,  came  very  close  to  Cater ina's  own  feeling.  But  her 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  103 

emotion,  instead  of  being  a  hindrance  to  her  singing,  gave  her 
additional  power.  Her  singing  was  what  she  could  do  best; 
it  was  her  one  point  of  superiority,  in  which  it  was  probable 
she  would  excel  the  high-born  beauty  whom  Anthony  was  to 
woo;  and  her  love,  her  jealousy,  her  pride,  her  rebellion 
against  her  destiny  made  one  stream  of  passion  which  welled 
forth  in  the  deep,  rich  tones  of  her  voice.  She  had  a  rare  con- 
tralto, which  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  high  musical  taste,  had 
been  careful  to  preserve  her  from  straining. 

"  Excellent,  Caterina, "  said  Lady  Cheverel,  as  there  was  a 
pavise  after  the  wonderful  linked  sweetness  of  "  Che  faro." 
"I  never  heard  you  sing  that  so  well.  Once  more!  " 

It  was  repeated;  and  then  came,  "7/0  perduto,"  which  Sir 
Christopher  encored,  in  spite  of  the  clock,  just  striking  nine. 
When  the  last  note  was  dying  out,  he  said — 

"  There's  a  clever  black-eyed  monkey.  Now  bring  out  the 
table  for  picquet." 

Caterina  drew  out  the  table  and  placed  the  cards;  then, 
with  her  rapid  fairy  suddenness  of  motion,  threw  herself  on 
her  knees  and  clasped  Sir  Christopher's  knee.  He  bent  down, 
stroked  her  cheek,  and  smiled. 

"Caterina,  that  is  foolish,"  said  Lady  Cheverel.  "I  wish 
you  would  leave  off  those  stage-players'  antics." 

She  jumped  up,  arranged  the  music  on  the  harpsichord,  and 
then,  seeing  the  Baronet  and  his  lady  seated  at  picquet,  quietly 
glided  out  of  the  room. 

Captain  Wybrow  had  been  leaning  near  the  harpsichord  dur- 
ing the  singing,  and  the  chaplain  had  thrown  himself  on  a 
sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room.  They  both  now  took  up  a  book. 

Mr.  Gilfil  chose  the  last  number  of  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 

:  Captain  Wybrow,  stretched  on  an  ottoman  near  the  door, 

opened  "  Faublas  " ;  and  there  was  perfect  silence  in  the  room 

which,  ten  minutes  before,  was  vibrating  to  the  passionate 

tones  of  Caterina. 

She  had  made  her  way  along  the  cloistered  passages,  now 
lighted  here  and  there  by  a  small  oil-lamp,  to  the  grand  stair- 
case, which  led  directly  to  a  gallery  running  along  the  whole 
eastern  side  of  the  building,  where  it  was  her  habit  to  walk 
when  she  wished  to  be  alone.  The  bright  moonlight  was 


104  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

streaming  through  the  windows,  throwing  into  strange  light 
and  shadow  the  heterogeneous  objects  that  lined  the  long 
walls:  Greek  statues  and  busts  of  Roman  emperors;  low  cab- 
inets filled  with  curiosities,  natural  and  antiquarian ;  tropical 
birds  and  huge  horns  of  beasts;  Hindoo  gods  and  strange 
shells;  swords  and  daggers,  and  bits  of  chain-armor;  Roman 
lamps  and  tiny  models  of  Greek  temples ;  and,  above  all  these, 
queer  old  family  portraits — of  little  boys  and  girls,  once  the 
hope  of  the  Cheverels,  with  close-shaven  heads  imprisoned  in 
stiff  ruffs — of  faded,  pink-faced  ladies,  with  rudimentary  fea- 
tures and  highly  developed  head-dresses — of  gallant  gentle- 
men, with  high  hips,  high  shoulders,  and  red  pointed  beards. 

Here,  on  rainy  days,  Sir  Christopher  and  his  lady  took  their 
promenade,  and  here  billiards  were  played;  but,  in  the  even- 
ing, it  was  forsaken  by  all  except  Caterina — and,  sometimes, 
one  other  person. 

She  paced  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight,  her  pale  face  and 
thin,  white-robed  form  making  her  look  like  the  ghost  of  some 
former  Lady  Cheverel  come  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 

By  and  by  she  paused  opposite  the  broad  window  above  the 
portico,  and  looked  out  on  the  long  vista  of  turf  and  trees  now 
stretching  chill  and  saddened  in  the  moonlight. 

Suddenly  a  breath  of  warmth  and  roses  seemed  to  float 
toward  her,  and  an  arm  stole  gently  round  her  waist,  while  a 
soft  hand  took  up  her  tiny  fingers.  Caterina  felt  an  electric 
thrill,  and  was  motionless  for  one  long  moment;  then  she 
pushed  away  the  arm  and  hand,  and,  turning  round,  lifted  up 
to  the  face  that  hung  over  her,  eyes  full  of  tenderness  and 
reproach.  The  fawn-like  unconsciousness  was  gone,  and  in 
that  one  look  were  the  ground  tones  of  poor  little  Caterina's 
nature — intense  love  and  fierce  jealousy. 

"  Why  do  you  push  me  away,  Tina? "  said  Captain  Wy- 
brow  in  a  half- whisper ;  "  are  you  angry  with  me  for  what  a 
hard  fate  puts  upon  me?  Would  you  have  me  cross  my  uncle 
— who  has  done  so  much  for  us  both — in  his  dearest  wish? 
You  know  I  have  duties — we  both  have  duties — before  which 
feeling  must  be  sacrificed." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Caterina,  stamping  her  foot,  and  turning 
away  her  head;  "don't  tell  me  what  I  know  already." 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  105 

There  was  a  voice  speaking  in  Caterina's  mind  to  which  she 
had  never  yet  given  vent.  That  voice  said  continually: 
"  Why  did  he  make  me  love  him — why  did  he  let  me  know  he 
loved  me,  if  he  knew  all  the  while  that  he  couldn't  brave 
everything  for  my  sake?"  Then  love  answered:  "He  was 
led  on  by  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  as  you  have  been,  Cater- 
ina;  and  now  you  ought  to  help  him  to  do  what  is  right." 
Then  the  voice  rejoined :  "  It  was  a  slight  matter  to  him.  He 
doesn't  much  mind  giving  you  up.  He  Avill  soon  love  that 
beautiful  woman,  and  forget  a  poor  little  pale  thing  like  you. " 

Thus  love,  anger,  and  jealousy  were  struggling  in  that  young 
soul. 

"  Besides,  Tina, "  continued  Captain  Wybrow  in  still  gentler 
tones,  "  I  shall  not  succeed.  Miss  Assher  very  likely  prefers 
some  one  else ;  and  you  know  I  have  the  best  will  in  the  world 
to  fail.  I  shall  come  back  a  hapless  bachelor — perhaps  to 
find  you  already  married  to  the  good-looking  chaplain,  who  is 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you.  Poor  Sir  Christopher 
has  made  up  his  mind  that  you're  to  have  Gilfil." 

"  Why  will  you  speak  so?  You  speak  from  your  own  want 
of  feeling.  Go  away  from  me." 

"  Don't  let  us  part  in  anger,  Tina.  All  this  may  pass  away. 
It's  as  likely  as  not  that  I  may  never  marry  any  one  at  all. 
These  palpitations  may  carry  me  off,  and  you  may  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  shall  never  be  anybody's  bride- 
groom. Who  knows  what  may  happen?  I  may  be  my  own 
master  before  I  get  into  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony,  and  be 
able  to  choose  my  little  singing-bird.  Why  should  we  distress 
ourselves  before  the  time?" 

"It  is  easy  to  talk  so  when  you  are  not  feeling,"  said 
Cateriua,  the  tears  flowing  fast.  "It  is  bad  to  bear  now, 
whatever  may  come  after.  But  you  don't  care  about  my  mis- 
ery." 

"Don't  I,  Tina?"  said  Anthony  in  his  tenderest  tones, 
again  stealing  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  drawing  her  tow- 
ard him.  Poor  Tina  was  the  slave  of  this  voice  and  touch. 
Grief  and  resentment,  retrospect  and  foreboding,  vanished — 
all  life  before  and  after  melted  away  in  the  bliss  of  that  mo- 
ment, as  Anthony  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 


106  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Captain  Wybrow  thought:  "Poor  little  Tina!  it  would 
make  her  very  happy  to  have  me.  But  she  is  a  mad  little 
thing." 

At  that  moment  a  loud  bell  startled  Caterina  from  her  trance 
of  bliss.  It  was  the  summons  to  prayers  in  the  chapel,  and 
she  hastened  away,  leaving  Captain  Wybrow  to  follow  slowly. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  that  family  assembled  to  worship  in 
the  little  chapel,  where  a  couple  of  wax-candles  threw  a  mild 
faint  light  on  the  figures  kneeling  there.  In  the  desk  was 
Mr.  Gilfil,  with  his  face  a  shade  graver  than  usual.  On  his 
right  hand,  kneeling  011  their  red  velvet  cushions,  were  the  mas- 
ter and  mistress  of  the  household,  in  their  elderly  dignified 
beauty.  On  his  left,  the  youthful  grace  of  Anthony  and 
Caterina,  in  all  the  striking  contrast  of  their  coloring — he, 
with  his  exquisite  outline  and  rounded  fairness,  like  an  Olym- 
pian god ;  she,  dark  and  tiny,  like  a  gypsy  changeling.  Then 
there  were  the  domestics  kneeling  on  red-covered  forms, — the 
women  headed  by  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  natty  little  old  house- 
keeper, in  snowy  cap  and  apron,  and  Mrs.  Sharp,  my  lady's 
maid,  of  somewhat  vinegar  aspect  and  flaunting  attire;  the 
men  by  Mr.  Bellamy  the  butler,  and  Mr  Warren,  Sir  Christo- 
pher's venerable  valet. 

A  few  collects  from  the  Evening  Service  were  what  Mr. 
Gilfil  habitually  read,  ending  with  the  simple  petition, 
"  Lighten  our  darkness. " 

And  then  they  all  rose,  the  servants  turning  to  courtesy  and 
bow  as  they  went  out.  The  family  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  said  good-night  to  each  other,  and  dispersed — all  to 
speedy  slumber  except  two.  Caterina  only  cried  herself  to 
sleep  after  the  clock  had  struck  twelve.  Mr.  Gilfil  lay  awake 
still  longer,  thinking  that  very  likely  Caterina  was  crying. 

Captain  Wybrow,  having  dismissed  his  valet  at  eleven,  was 
soon  in  a  soft  slumber,  his  face  looking  like  a  fine  cameo  in 
high  relief  on  the  slightly  indented  pillow. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  107 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  last  chapter  has  given  the  discerning  reader  sufficient 
insight  into  the  state  of  things  at  Cheverel  Manor  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1788.  In  that  summer,  we  know,  the  great  nation  of 
Prance  was  agitated  by  conflicting  thoughts  and  passions, 
which  were  but  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  And  in  our 
Caterina's  little  breast,  too,  there  were  terrible  struggles. 
The  poor  bird  Avas  beginning  to  flatter  and  vainly  dash  its  soft 
breast  against  the  hard  iron  bars  of  the  inevitable,  and  we  see 
too  plainly  the  danger,  if  that  anguish  should  go  on  heighten- 
ing instead  of  being  allayed,  that  the  palpitating  heart  may  be 
fatally  bruised. 

Meanwhile,  if,  as  I  hope,  you  feel  some  interest  in  Caterina 
and  her  friends  at  Cheveral  Manor,  you  are  perhaps  asking, 
how  came  she  to  be  there?  How  was  it  that  this  tiny  dark- 
eyed  child  of  the  south,  whose  face  was  immediately  suggest- 
ive of  olive-covered  hills  and  taper-lit  shrines,  came  to  have 
her  home  in  that  stately  English  manor-house,  by  the  side  of 
the  blond  matron,  Lady  Cheverel — almost  as  if  a  humming- 
bird were  found  perched  on  one  of  the  elm-trees  in  the  park, 
by  the  side  of  her  ladyship's  handsomest  pouter-pigeon? 
Speaking  good  English,  too,  and  joining  in  Protestant  pray- 
ers? Surely  she  must  have  been  adopted  and  brought  over  to 
England  at  a  very  early  age.  She  was. 

During  Sir  Christopher's  last  visit  to  Italy  with  his  lady, 
fifteen  years  before,  they  resided  for  some  time  at  Milan, 
where  Sir  Christopher,  who  was  an  enthusiast  for  Gothic  arch- 
itecture, and  was  then  entertaining  the  project  of  metamor- 
phosing his  plain  brick  family  mansion  into  the  model  of  a 
Gothic  manor-house,  was  bent  on  studying  the  details  of  that 
marble  miracle,  the  Cathedral.  Here  Lady  Cheverel,  as  at 
other  Italian  cities  where  she  made  any  protracted  stay,  en- 
gaged a  maestro  to  give  her  lessons  in  singing,  for  she  had  then 
not  only  fine  musical  taste,  but  a  fine  soprano  voice.  Those 
were  days  when  very  rich  people  used  manuscript  music,  and 
many  a  man  who  resembled  Jean  Jacques  in  nothing  else, 


108  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

resembled  him  in  getting  a  livelihood  "  a  copier  la  musique  a 
tant  la  page. "  Lady  Cheverel  having  need  of  this  service, 
Maestro  Albani  told  her  he  would  send  her  a  2^overaccio  of  his 
acquaintance,  whose  manuscript  was  the  neatest  and  most  cor- 
rect he  knew  of.  Unhappily,  the  poveraccio  was  not  always  in 
his  best  wits,  and  was  sometimes  rather  slow  in  consequence; 
but  it  would  be  a  work  of  Christian  charity  worthy  of  the 
beautiful  Signora  to  employ  poor  Sarti. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Sharp,  then  a  blooming  abigail  of 
three  and  thirty,  entered  her  lady's  private  room  and  said, 
"If  you  please,  my  lady,  there's  the  frowsiest,  shabbiest  man 
you  ever  saw,  outside,  and  he's  told  Mr.  Warren  as  the  sing- 
ing-master sent  him  to  see  your  ladyship.  But  I  think  you'll 
hardly  like  him  to  come  in  here.  Belike  he's  only  a  beggar." 

"Oh,  yes,  show  him  in  immediately." 

Mrs.  Sharp  retired,  muttering  something  about  "  fleas  and 
worse."  She  had  the  smallest  possible  admiration  for  fair 
Ausonia  and  its  natives,  and  even  her  profound  deference  for 
Sir  Christopher  and  her  lady  could  not  prevent  her  from  ex- 
pressing her  amazement  at  the  infatuation  of  gentlefolks  in 
choosing  to  sojourn  among  "Papises,  in  countries  where  there 
was  no  getting  to  air  a  bit  o'  linen,  and  where  the  people  smelt 
o'  garlic  fit  to  knock  you  down." 

However,  she  presently  reappeared,  ushering  in  a  small, 
meagre  man,  sallow  and  dingy,  with  a  restless  wandering  look 
in  his  dull  eyes,  and  an  excessive  timidity  about  his  deep 
reverences,  which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been 
long  a  solitary  prisoner.  Yet  through  all  this  squalor  and 
wretchedness  there  were  some  traces  discernible  of  compara- 
tive youth  and  former  good  looks.  Lady  Cheverel,  though 
not  very  tender-hearted,  still  less  sentimental,  was  essentially 
kind,  and  liked  to  dispense  benefits  like  a  goddess,  who  looks 
down  benignly  on  the  halt,  the  maimed,  and  the  blind  that 
approach  her  shrine.  She  was  smitten  with  some  compassion 
at  the  sight  of  poor  Sarti,  who  struck  her  as  the  mere  battered 
wreck  of  a  vessel  that  might  have  once  floated  gayly  enough 
on  its  outward  voyage  to  the  sound  of  pipes  and  tabors.  She 
spoke  gently  as  she  pointed  out  to  him  the  operatic  selections 
she  wished  him  to  copy,  and  he  seemed  to  sun  himself  in  her 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  109 

auburn,  radiant  presence,  so  that  when  he  made  his  exit  with 
the  music-books  under  his  arm,  his  bow,  though  not  less  rev- 
erent, was  less  timid. 

It  was  ten  years  at  least  since  Sarti  had  seen  anything  so 
bright  and  stately  and  beautiful  as  Lady  Cheverel.  For  the 
time  was  far  off  in  which  he  had  trod  the  stage  in  satin  and 
feathers,  the  primo  tenore  of  one  short  season.  He  had  com- 
pletely lost  his  voice  in  the  following  winter,  and  had  ever 
since  been  little  better  than  a  cracked  fiddle,  which  is  good 
for  nothing  but  firewood.  For,  like  many  Italian  singers,  he 
was  too  ignorant  to  teach,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  one 
talent  of  penmanship,  he  and  his  young  helpless  wife  might 
have  starved.  Then,  just  after  their  third  child  was  born, 
fever  came,  swept  away  the  sickly  mother  and  the  two  eldest 
children,  and  attacked  Sarti  himself,  who  rose  from  his  sick- 
bed with  enfeebled  brain  and  muscle  and  a  tiny  baby  on  his 
hands,  scarcely  four  months  old.  He  lodged  over  a  fruit-shop 
kept  by  a  stout  virago,  loud  of  tongue  and  irate  in  temper,  but 
who  had  had  children  born  to.  her,  and  so  had  taken  care  of 
the  tiny  yellow,  black-eyed  bambinetta,  and  tended  Sarti  him- 
self through  his  sickness.  Here  he  continued  to  live,  earning 
a  meagre  subsistence  for  himself  and  his  little  one  by  the  work 
of  copying  music,  put  into  his  hands  chiefly  by  Maestro  Albani. 
He  seemed  to  exist  for  nothing  but  the  child :  he  tended  it,  he 
dandled  it,  he  chatted  to  it,  living  with  it  alone  in  his  one 
room  above  the  fruit-shop,  only  asking  his  landlady  to  take 
care  of  the  marmoset  during  his  short  absences  in  fetching 
and  carrying  home  work.  Customers  frequenting  that  fruit- 
shop  might  often  see  the  tiny  Caterina  seated  on  the  floor  with 
her  legs  in  a  heap  of  pease,  which  it  was  her  delight  to  kick 
about"1,  or  perhaps  deposited,  like  a  kitten,  in  a  large  basket 
out  of  harm's  way. 

Sometimes,  however,  Sarti  left  his  little  one  with  another 
kind  of  protectress.  He  was  very  regular  in  his  devotions, 
which  he  paid  thrice  a  week  in  the  great  cathedral,  carrying 
Caterina  with  him.  Here,  when  the  high  morning  sun  was 
warming  the  myriad  glittering  pinnacles  without,  and  strug- 
gling against  the  massive  gloom  within,  the  shadow  of  a  man 
with  a  child  on  his  arm  might  be  seen  flitting  across  the  more 


110  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

stationary  shadows  of  pillar  and  mullion,  and  making  its  way 
toward  a  little  tinsel  Madonna  hanging  in  a  retired  spot  near 
the  choir.  Amid  all  the  sublimities  of  the  mighty  cathedral, 
poor  Sarti  had  fixed  on  this  tinsel  Madonna  as  the  symbol  of 
divine  mercy  and  protection — just  as  a  child,  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  landscape,  sees  none  of  the  glories  of  wood  and  sky, 
but  sets  its  heart  on  a  floating  feather  or  insect  that  happens 
to  be  on  a  level  with  its  eye.  Here,  then,  Sarti  worshipped 
and  prayed,  setting  Caterina  on  the  floor  by  his  side;  and  now 
and  then,  when  the  cathedral  lay  near  some  place  where  he 
had  to  call,  and  did  not  like  to  take  her,  he  would  leave  her 
there  in  front  of  the  tinsel  Madonna,  where  she  would  sit,  per- 
fectly good,  amusing  herself  with  low  crowing  noises  and  see- 
sawings  of  her  tiny  body.  And  when  Sarti  came  back,  he 
always  found  that  the  Blessed  Mother  had  taken  good  care  of 
Caterina. 

That  was  briefly  the  history  of  Sarti,  who  fulfilled  so  well 
the  orders  Lady  Cheverel  gave  him,  that  she  sent  him  away 
again  with  a  stock  of  new  work.  But  this  time,  week  after 
week  passed,  and  he  neither  reappeared  nor  sent  home  the 
music  intrusted  to  him.  Lady  Cheverel  began  to  be  anx- 
ious, and  was  thinking  of  sending  Warren  to  inquire  at  the 
address  Sarti  had  given  her,  when  one  day,  as  she  was 
equipped  for  driving  out,  the  valet  brought  in  a  small  piece  of 
paper,  which,  he  said,  had  been  left  for  her  ladyship  by  a 
man  who  was  carrying  fruit.  The  paper  contained  only  three 
tremulous  lines,  in  Italian : 

"  Will  the  Eccelentissima,  for  the  love  of  God,  have  pity  on 
a  dying  man,  and  come  to  him?" 

Lady  Cheverel  recognized  the  handwriting  as  Sarti' s  in  spite 
of  its  tremulousness,  and,  going  down  to  her  carriage,  ordered 
the  Milanese  coachman  to  drive  to  Strada  Quinquagesima, 
Numero  10.  The  coach  stopped  in  a  dirty,  narrow  street 
opposite  La  Pazzini's  fruit-shop,  and  that  large  specimen  of 
womanhood  immediately  presented  herself  at  the  door,  to  the 
extreme  disgust  of  Mrs.  Sharp,  who  remarked  privately  to  Mr. 
Warren  that  La  Pazzini  was  a  "hijeous  porpis."  The  fruit- 
woman,  however,  was  all  smiles  and  deep  courtesies  to  the 
Eccelentissima,  who,  not  very  well  understanding  her  Milanese 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  Ill 

dialect,  abbreviated  the  conversation  by  asking  to  be  shown  at 
once  to  Signor  Sarti.  La  Pazzini  preceded  her  up  the  dark, 
narrow  stairs,  and  opened  a  door  through  which  she  begged 
her  ladyship  to  enter.  Directly  opposite  the  door  lay  Sarti, 
on  a  low,  miserable  bed.  His  eyes  were  glazed,  and  no  move- 
ment indicated  that  he  was  conscious  of  their  entrance. 

On  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  seated  a  tiny  child,  apparently 
not  three  years  old,  her  head  covered  by  a  linen  cap,  her  feet 
clothed  with  leather  boots,  above  which  her  little  yellow  legs 
showed  thin  and  naked.  A  frock,  made  of  what  had  once 
been  a  gay  flowered  silk,  was  her  only  other  garment.  Her 
large  dark  eyes  shone  from  out  her  queer  little  face,  like  two 
precious  stones  in  a  grotesque  image  carved  in  old  ivory.  She 
held  an  empty  medicine-bottle  in  her  hand,  and  was  amusing 
herself  with  putting  the  cork  in  and  drawing  it  out  again,  to 
hear  how  it  would  pop. 

La  Pazzini  went  up  to  the  bed  and  said,  "  Ecco  la  nobilis- 
sima  donna !  "  but  directly  after  screamed  out,  "  Holy  mother ! 
he  is  dead !  " 

It  was  so.  The  entreaty  had  not  been  sent  in  time  for  Sarti 
to  carry  out  his  project  of  asking  the  great  English  lady  to 
take  care  of  his  Caterina.  That  was  the  thought  which  haunted 
his  feeble  brain  as  soon  as  he  began  to  fear  that  his  illness 
would  end  in  death.  She  had  wealth — she  was  kind — she 
would  surely  do  something  for  the  poor  orphan.  And  so,  at 
last,  he  sent  that  scrap  of  paper  which  won  the  fulfilment  of 
his  prayer,  though  he  did  not  live  to  utter  it.  Lady  Cheverel 
gave  La  Pazzini  money  that  the  last  decencies  might  be  paid 
to  the  dead  man,  and  carried  away  Caterina,  meaning  to  con- 
sult Sir  Christopher  as  to  what  should  be  done  with  her. 
Even  Mrs.  Sharp  had  been  so  smitten  with  pity  by  the  scene 
she  had  witnessed  when  she  was  summoned  upstairs  to  fetch 
Caterina,  as  to  shed  a  small  tear,  though  she  was  not  at  all 
subject  to  that  weakness;  indeed,  she  abstained  from  it  on 
principle,  because,  as  she  often  said,  it  was  known  to  be  the 
worst  thing  in  the  world  for  the  eyes. 

On  the  way  back  to  her  hotel,  Lady  Cheverel  turned  over 
various  projects  in  her  mind  regarding  Caterina,  but  at  last 
one  gained  the  preference  over  all  the  rest.  Why  should  they 


112  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

not  take  the  child  to  England,  and  bring  her  up  there?  They 
had  been  married  twelve  years,  yet  Cheverel  Manor  was  cheered 
by  no  children's  voices,  and  the  old  house  would  be  all  the  bet- 
ter for  a  little  of  that  music.  Besides,  it  would  be  a  Christian 
work  to  train  this  little  Papist  into  a  good  Protestant,  and 
graft  as  much  English  fruit  as  possible  on  the  Italian  stem. 

Sir  Christopher  listened  to  this  plan  with  hearty  acquies- 
cence. He  loved  children,  and  took  at  once  to  the  little  black- 
eyed  monkey — his  name  for  Caterina  all  through  her  short  life. 
But  neither  he  nor  Lady  Cheverel  had  any  idea  of  adopting 
her  as  their  daughter,  and  giving  her  their  own  rank  in  life. 
They  were  much  too  English  and  aristocratic  to  think  of  any- 
thing so  romantic.  No!  the  child  would  be  brought  up  at 
Cheverel  Manor  as  a  protegee,  to  be  ultimately  useful,  perhaps, 
in  sorting  worsteds,  keeping  accounts,  reading  aloud,  and  other- 
wise supplying  the  place  of  spectacles  when  her  ladyship's  eyes 
should  wax  dim. 

So  Mrs.  Sharp  had  to  procure  new  clothes,  to  replace  the 
linen  cap,  flowered  frock,  and  leathern  boots ;  and  now,  strange 
to  say,  little  Caterina,  who  had  suffered  many  unconscious 
evils  in  her  existence  of  thirty  moons,  first  began  to  know 
conscious  troubles.  "Ignorance,"  says  Ajax,  "is  a  painless 
evil " ;  so,  I  should  think,  is  dirt,  considering  the  merry  faces 
that  go  along  with  it.  At  any  rate,  cleanliness  is  sometimes  a 
painful  good,  as  any  one  can  vouch  who  has  had  his  face 
washed  the  wrong  way,  by  a  pitiless  hand  with  a  gold  ring  on 
the  third  finger.  If  you,  reader,  have  not  known  that  initia- 
tory anguish,  it  is  idle  to  expect  that  you  will  form  any  ap- 
proximate conception  of  what  Caterina  endured  under  Mrs. 
Sharp's  new  dispensation  of  soap-and- water.  Happily,  this 
purgatory  came  presently  to  be  associated  in  her  tiny  brain 
with  a  passage  straightway  to  a  seat  of  bliss — the  sofa  in  Lady 
Cheverel' s  sitting-room,  where  there  were  toys  to  be  broken,  a 
ride  was  to  be  had  on  Sir  Christopher's  knee,  and  a  spaniel  of 
resigned  temper  was  prepared  to  undergo  small  tortures  with- 
out flinching. 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  113 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  three  months  from  the  time  of  Caterina's  adoption — 
namely,  in  the  late  autumn  of  1773 — the  chimneys  of  Cheverel 
Manor  were  sending  up  unwonted  smoke,  and  the  servants 
were  awaiting  in  excitement  the  return  of  their  master  and 
mistress  after  a  two  years'  absence.  Great  was  the  astonish- 
ment of  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  housekeeper,  when  Mr.  Warren 
lifted  a  little  black-eyed  child  out  of  the  carriage,  and  great 
was  Mrs.  Sharp's  sense  of  superior  information  and  experience, 
as  she  detailed  Caterina's  history,  interspersed  with  copious 
comments,  to  the  rest  of  the  upper  servants  that  evening,  as 
they  were  taking  a  comfortable  glass  of  grog  together  in  the 
housekeeper's  room. 

A  pleasant  room  it  was  as  any  party  need  desire  to  muster 
in  on  a  cold  November  evening.  The  fireplace  alone  was  a 
picture :  a  wide  and  deep  recess  with  a  low  brick  altar  in  the 
middle,  where  great  logs  of  dry  wood  sent  myriad  sparks  up 
the  dark  chimney -throat ;  and  over  the  front  of  this  recess  a 
large  wooden  entablature  bearing  this  motto,  finely  carved  in  old 
English  letters,  "  Jfear  00&  an&  bOUOt  tbC  1fcin0."  And 
beyond  the  party,  who  formed  a  half-moon  with  their  chairs 
and  well-furnished  table  round  this  bright  fireplace,  what  a 
space  of  chiaro-scuro  for  the  imagination  to  revel  in !  Stretch- 
ing across  the  far  end  of  the  room,  what  an  oak  table,  high 
enough  surely  for  Homer's  gods,  standing  on  four  massive 
legs,  bossed  and  bulging  like  sculptured  urns !  and,  lining  the 
distant  wall,  what  vast  cupboards,  suggestive  of  inexhaustible 
apricot  jam  and  promiscuous  butler's  perquisites!  A  stray 
picture  or  two  had  found  their  way  down  there,  and  made 
agreeable  patches  of  dark  brown  on  the  buff -colored  walls. 
High  over  the  loud -resounding  double  door  hung  one  which, 
from  some  indications  of  a  face  looming  out  of  blackness, 
might,  by  a  great  synthetic  effort,  be  pronounced  a  Magdalen. 
Considerably  lower  down  hung  the  similitude  of  a  hat  and 
feathers,  with  portions  of  a  ruff,  stated  by  Mrs.  Bellamy  to 


114  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

represent  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  who  invented  gunpowder,  and, 
in  her  opinion,  "might  ha'  been  better  emplyed." 

But  this  evening  the  mind  is  but  slightly  arrested  by  the 
great  Verulam,  and  is  in  the  humor  to  think  a  dead  philoso- 
pher less  interesting  than  a  living  gardener,  who  sits  con- 
spicuous in  the  half -circle  round  the  fireplace.  Mr.  Bates  is 
habitually  a  guest  in  the  housekeeper' s  room  of  an  evening, 
preferring  the  social  pleasures  there — the  feast  of  gossip  aud 
the  flow  of  grog — to  a  bachelor's  chair  in  his  charming  thatched 
cottage  on  a  little  island,  where  every  sound  is  remote  but 
the  cawing  of  rooks  and  the  screaming  of  wild  geese :  poetic 
sounds,  doubtless,  but,  humanly  speaking,  not  convivial. 

Mr.  Bates  was  by  no  means  an  average  person,  to  be  passed 
without  special  notice.  He  was  a  sturdy  Yorkshireman,  ap- 
proaching forty,  whose  face  Nature  seemed  to  have  colored 
when  she  was  in  a  hurry  and  had  no  time  to  attend  to  nuances, 
for  every  inch  of  him  visible  above  his  neckcloth  was  of  one 
impartial  redness ;  so  that  when  he  was  at  some  distance  your 
imagination  was  at  liberty  to  place  his  lips  anywhere  between 
his  nose  and  chin.  Seen  closer,  his  lips  were  discerned  to  be 
of  a  peculiar  cut,  and  I  fancy  this  had  something  to  do  with 
the  peculiarity  of  his  dialect,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  was  indi- 
vidual rather  than  provincial.  Mr.  Bates  was  further  distin- 
guished from  the  common  herd  by  a  perpetual  blinking  of  the 
eyes ;  and  this,  together  with  the  red-rose  tint  of  his  complex- 
ion, and  a  way  he  had  of  hanging  his  head  forward,  and  roll- 
ing it  from  side  to  side  as  he  walked,  gave  him  the  air  of  a 
Bacchus  in  a  blue  apron,  who,  in  the  present  reduced  circum- 
stances of  Olympus,  had  taken  to  the  management  of  his  own 
vines.  Yet,  as  gluttons  are  often  thin,  so  sober  men  are  often 
rubicund;  and  Mr.  Bates  was  sober,  with  that  manly,  British, 
churchman -like  sobriety  which  can  carry  a  few  glasses  of  grog 
without  any  perceptible  clarification  of  ideas. 

"  Dang  my  boottons !  "  observed  Mr.  Bates,  who,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  Mrs.  Sharp's  narrative,  felt  himself  urged  to  his 
strongest  interjection,  "  it's  what  I  shouldn't  ha'  looked  for 
from  Sir  Cristhifer  an'  my  ledy,  to  bring  a  furrin  child  into 
the  coonthry;  an'  depend  on't,  whether  you  an'  me  lives  to 
see't  or  noo,  it'll  coom  to  soom  harm.  The  first  sitiation  iver 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY. 

I  held — it  was  a  hold  hancient  habbey,  wi'  the  biggest  orchard 
o'  apples  an'  pears  you  ever  see — there  was  a  French  valet, 
an'  he  stool  silk  stoockins,  an'  shirts,  an'  rings,  an'  iverythin' 
he  could  ley  his  hands  on,  an'  run  awey  at  last  wi'  th'  missis's 
jewl-box.  They're  all  alaike,  them  furriners.  It  roons  i'  th' 
blood." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Sharp,  with  the  air  of  a  person  who  held 
liberal  views,  but  knew  where  to  draw  the  line.  "  I'm  not 
a-going  to  defend  the  furriners,  for  I've  as  good  reason  to  know 
what  they  are  as  most  folks,  an'  nobody'll  ever  hear  me  say 
but  what  they're  next  door  to  heathens,  and  the  hile  they  eat 
wi'  their  victuals  is  enough  to  turn  any  Christian's  stomach. 
But  for  all  that — an'  for  all  as  the  trouble  in  respect  o' 
washiu'  and  managin'  has  fell  upo'  me  through  the  journey — 
I  can't  say  but  what  I  think  as  my  Lady  an'  Sir  Cristifer's 
done  a  right  thing  by  a  hinnicent  child  as  doesn't  know  its 
right  hand  from  its  left,  i'  bringing  it  where  it'll  learn  to 
speak  summat  better  nor  gibberish,  and  be  brought  up  i'  the 
true  religion.  For  as  for  them  furriii  churches  as  Sir  Cristifer 
is  so  unaccountable  mad  after,  wi'  pictures  o'  men  an'  women 
a-showing  themselves  just  for  all  the  world  as  God  made  'em, 
I  think,  for  my  part,  as  it's  almost  a  sin  to  go  into  'em." 

"You're  likely  to  have  more  foreigners,  however,"  said  Mr. 
Warren,  who  liked  to  provoke  the  gardener,  "  for  Sir  Christo- 
pher has  engaged  some  Italian  workmen  to  help  in  the  altera- 
tions in  the  house." 

"  (Alterations !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bellamy,  in  alarm.  "  What 
©Iterations?  " 

"  Why,"  answered  Mr.  Warren,  "Sir  Christopher,  as  I  un- 
derstand, is  going  to  make  a  new  thing  of  the  old  Manor-house, 
both  inside  and  out.  And  he's  got  portfolios  full  of  plans  and 
pictures  coming.  It  is  to  be  cased  with  stone,  in  the  Gothic 
style — pretty  near  like  the  churches,  you  know,  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out;  and  the  ceilings  are  to  be  beyond  anything  that's 
been  seen  in  the  country.  Sir  Christopher's  been  giving  a 
deal  of  study  to  it." 

"  Dear  heart  alive ! "  said  Mrs.  Bellamy,  "  we  shall  be 
pisoned  wi'  lime  an'  plaster,  an'  hev  the  house  full  o'  work- 
men colloguing  wi'  the  maids,  an'  makin'  no  end  o'  mischief." 


116  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"That  ye  may  ley  your  life  on,  Mrs.  Bellamy,"  said  Mr. 
Bates.  "Howiver,  I'll  noot  den  ay  that  the  Goothic  stayle's 
prithy  anoof,  an'  it's  woonderful  how  near  them  stoon-carvers 
cuts  oot  the  shapes  o'  the  pineapples,  an'  shamrucks,  an' 
rooses.  I  dare  sey  Sir  Cristhifer  '11  meek  a  naice  thing  o'  the 
Manor,  an'  there  woon't  be  may  gentlemen's  houses  i'  the  coon- 
thry  as  '11  coom  up  to't,  wi'  sich  a  garden  an'  pleasure-groons 
an'  wall-fruit  as  King  George  maight  be  prood  on." 

"Well,  I  can't  think  as  the  house  can  be  better  nor  it  is, 
Gothic  or  no  Gothic,"  said  Mrs.  Bellamy;  "an'  I've  done  the 
picklin'  and  preservin'  in  it  fourteen  year  Michaelmas  was  a 
three  weeks.  But  what  does  my  lady  say  to't?" 

"  My  lady  knows  better  than  cross  Sir  Cristifer  in  what  he's 
set  his  mind  on,"  said  Mr.  Bellamy,  who  objected  to  the  crit- 
ical tone  of  the  conversation.  "  Sir  Cristifer  '11  hev  his  own 
way,  that  you  may  tek  your  oath.  An'  i'  the  right  on't  too. 
He's  a  gentleman  born,  an's  got  the  money.  But  come,  Mes- 
ter  Bates,  fill  your  glass,  an'  we'll  drink  health  an'  happiness 
to  his  honor  an'  my  lady,  and  then  you  shall  give  us  a  song. 
Sir  Cristifer  doesn't  come  hum  from  Italy  ivery  night." 

This  demonstrable  position  was  accepted  without  hesitation 
as  ground  for  a  toast ;  but  Mr.  Bates,  apparently  thinking  that 
his  song  was  not  an  equally  reasonable  sequence,  ignored  the 
second  part  of  Mr.  Bellamy's  proposal.  So  Mrs.  Sharp,  who 
had  been  heard  to  say  that  she  had  no  thoughts  at  all  of  marry- 
ing Mr.  Bates,  though  he  was  "  a  sensable  fresh-colored  man 
as  many  a  woman  'ud  snap  at  for  a  husband,"  enforced  Mr. 
Bellamy's  appeal. 

"Come,  Mr.  Bates,  let  us  hear  '  Hoy's  Wife. '  I'd  rether 
hear  a  good  old  song  like  that  nor  all  the  fine  Italian  toodlin. " 

Mr.  Bates,  urged  thus  flatteringly,  stuck  his  thumbs  into 
the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
with  his  head  in  that  position  in  which  he  could  look  directly 
toward  the  zenith,  and  struck  up  a  remarkably  staccato  ren- 
dering of  "Koy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch."  This  melody  may 
certainly  be  taxed  with  excessive  iteration,  but  that  was  pre- 
cisely its  highest  recommendation  to  the  present  audience, 
who  found  it  all  the  easier  to  swell  the  chorus.  Nor  did  it  at 
all  diminish  their  pleasure  that  the  only  particular  concerning 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  117 

"Roy's  Wife,"  which  Mr.  Bates's  enunciation  allowed  them 
to  gather,  was  that  she  "chated"  him, — whether  in  the  mat- 
ter of  garden  stuff  or  of  some  other  commodity,  or  why  her 
name  should,  in  consequence,  be  repeatedly  reiterated  with 
exultation,  remaining  an  agreeable  mystery. 

Mr.  Bates's  song  formed  the  climax  of  the  evening's  good- 
fellowship,  and  the  party  soon  after  dispersed — Mrs.  Bellamy 
perhaps  to  dream  of  quicklime  flying  among  her  preserving- 
pans,  or  of  love-sick  housemaids  reckless  of  unswept  corners — 
and  Mrs.  Sharp  to  sink  into  pleasant  visions  of  independent 
housekeeping  in  Mr.  Bates's  cottage,  with  no  bells  to  answer, 
and  with  fruit  and  vegetables  ad  libitum. 

Caterina  soon  conquered  all  prejudices  against  her  foreign 
blood;  for  what  prejudices  will  hold  out  against  helplessness 
and  broken  prattle?  She  became  the  pet  of  the  household, 
thrusting  Sir  Christopher's  favorite  bloodhound  of  that  day, 
Mrs.  Bellamy's  two  canaries,  and  Mr.  Bates's  largest  Dorking 
hen,  into  a  merely  secondary  position.  The  consequence  was, 
that  in  the  space  of  a  summer's  day  she  went  through  a  great 
cycle  of  experiences,  commencing  with  the  somewhat  acidu- 
lated good-will  of  Mrs.  Sharp's  nursery  discipline.  Then 
came  the  grave  luxury  of  her  ladyship's  sitting-room,  and,  per- 
haps, the  dignity  of  a  ride  on  Sir  Christopher's  knee,  some- 
times followed  by  a  visit  with  him  to  the  stables,  where  Caterina 
soon  learned  to  hear  without  crying  the  baying  of  the  chained 
bloodhounds,  and  to  say,  with  ostentatious  bravery,  clinging  to 
Sir  Christopher's  leg  all  the  while,  "Dey  not  hurt  Tina." 
Then  Mrs.  Bellamy  would  perhaps  be  going  out  to  gather  the 
rose-leaves  and  lavender,  and  Tina  was  made  proud  and  happy 
by  being  allowed  to  carry  a  handful  in  her  pinafore;  happier 
still,  when  they  were  spread  out  on  sheets  to  dry,  so  that  she 
could  sit  down  like  a  frog  among  them,  and  have  them  poured 
over  her  in  fragrant  showers.  Another  frequent  pleasure  was 
to  take  a  journey  with  Mr.  Bates  through  the  kitchen-gardens 
and  the  hothouses,  where  the  rich  bunches  of  green  and  purple 
grapes  hung  from  the  roof,  far  out  of  reach  of  the  tiny  yellow 
hand  that  could  not  help  stretching  itself  out  toward  them ; 
though  the  hand  was  sure  at  last  to  be  satisfied  with  some  del- 
icate-flavored fruit  or  sweet-scented  flower.  Indeed,  in  the 


118  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

long,  monotonous  leisure  of  that  great  country-house,  you  may 
be  sure  there  was  always  some  one  who  had  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  play  with  Tina.  So  that  the  little  southern  bird 
had  its  northern  nest  lined  with  tenderness,  and  caresses,  and 
pretty  things.  A  loving,  sensitive  nature  was  too  likely,  un- 
der such  nurture,  to  have  its  susceptibility  heightened  into 
unfitness  for  an  encounter  with  any  harder  experience ;  all  the 
more,  because  there  were  gleams  of  fierce  resistance  to  any 
discipline  that  had  a  harsh  or  unloving  aspect.  For  the  only 
thing  in  which  Caterina  showed  any  precocity  was  a  certain 
ingenuity  in  vindictiveness.  When  she  was  five  years  old  she 
had  revenged  herself  for  an  unpleasant  prohibition  by  pouring 
the  ink  into  Mrs.  Sharp's  work-basket;  and  once,  when  Lady 
Cheverel  took  her  doll  from  her,  because  she  was  affectionately 
licking  the  paint  off  its  face,  the  little  minx  straightway 
climbed  on  a  chair  and  threw  down  a  flower-vase  that  stood  on 
a  bracket.  This  was  almost  the  only  instance  in  which  her 
anger  overcame  her  awe  of  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  the 
ascendancy  always  belonging  to  kindness  that  never  melts  into 
caresses,  and  is  severely  but  uniformly  beneficent. 

By  and  by  the  happy  monotony  of  Cheverel  Manor  was 
broken  in  upon  in  the  way  Mr.  Warren  had  announced.  The 
roads  through  the  park  were  cut  up  by  wagons  carrying  loads 
of  stone  from  a  neighboring  quarry,  the  green  courtyard  be- 
came dusty  with  lime,  and  the  peaceful  house  rang  with  the 
sound  of  tools.  For  the  next  ten  years  Sir  Christopher  was 
occupied  with  the  architectural  metamorphosis  of  his  old  fam- 
ily mansion ;  thus  anticipating,  through  the  prompting  of  his 
individual  taste,  that  general  reaction  from  the  insipid  imita- 
tion of  the  Palladian  style,  toward  a  restoration  of  the  Gothic, 
which  marked  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  This  was 
the  object  he  had  set  his  heart  on,  with  a  singleness  of  deter- 
mination which  was  regarded  with  not  a  little  contempt  by  his 
fox-hunting  neighbors,  who  wondered  greatly  that  a  man  with 
some  of  the  best  blood  in  England  in  his  veins,  should  be  mean 
enough  to  economize  in  his  cellar,  and  reduce  his  stud  to  two 
old  coach-horses  and  a  hack,  for  the  sake  of  riding  a  hobby, 
and  playing  the  architect.  Their  wives  did  not  see  so  much 
to  blame  in  the  matter  of  the  cellar  and  stables,  but  they  were 


MR.   GILPIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  119 

eloquent  in  pity  for  poor  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  to  live  in 
no  more  than  three  rooms  at  once,  and  who  must  be  distracted 
with  noises,  and  have  her  constitution  undermined  by  un- 
healthy smells.  It  was  as  bad  as  having  a  husband  with  an 
asthma.  Why  did  not  Sir  Christopher  take  a  house  for  her  at 
Bath,  or,  at  least,  if  he  must  spend  his  time  in  overlooking 
workmen,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Manor? 
This  pity  was  quite  gratuitous,  as  the  most  plentiful  pity 
always  is ;  for  though  Lady  Cheverel  did  not  share  her  hus- 
band's architectural  enthusiasm,  she  had  too  rigorous  a  view 
of  a  wife's  duties,  and  too  profound  a  deference  for  Sir  Chris- 
topher, to  regard  submission  as  a  grievance.  As  for  Sir 
Christopher,  he  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  criticism.  "  An 
obstinate,  crotchety  man,"  said  his  neighbors.  But  I,  who 
have  seen  Cheverel  Manor,  as  he  bequeathed  it  to  his  heirs, 
rather  attribute  that  unswerving  architectural  purpose  of  his, 
conceived  and  carried  out  through  long  years  of  systematic 
personal  exertion,  to  something  of  the  fervor  of  genius,  as  well 
as  inflexibility  of  will ;  and  in  walking  through  those  rooms, 
with  their  splendid  ceilings  and  their  meagre  furniture,  which 
tell  how  all  the  spare  money  had  been  absorbed  before  per- 
sonal comfort  was  thought  of,  I  have  felt  that  there  dwelt  in 
this  old  English  baronet  some  of  that  sublime  spirit  which  dis- 
tinguishes art  from  luxury,  and  worships  beauty  apart  from 
self-indulgence. 

While  Cheverel  Manor  was  growing  from  ugliness  into 
beauty,  Caterina,  too,  was  growing  from  a  little  yellow  bantling 
into  a  whiter  maiden,  with  no  positive  beauty  indeed,  but  with 
a  certain  light,  airy  grace,  which,  with  her  large  appealing 
dark  eyes,  and  a  voice  that,  in  its  low-toned  tenderness,  re- 
called the  love-notes  of  the  stock-dove,  gave  her  a  more  than 
usual  charm.  Unlike  the  building,  however,  Caterina's  de- 
velopment was  the  result  of  no  systematic  or  careful  appliances. 
She  grew  up  very  much  like  the  primroses,  which  the  gardener 
is  not  sorry  to  see  within  his  enclosure,  but  takes  no  pains  to 
cultivate.  Lady  Cheverel  taught  her  to  read  and  write,  and 
say  her  catechism ;  Mr.  Warren,  being  a  good  accountant,  gave 
her  lessons  in  arithmetic,  by  her  ladyship's  desire;  and  Mrs. 
Sharp  initiated  her  in  all  the  mysteries  of  the  needle.  But, 


120  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

for  a  long  time,  there  was  no  thought  of  giving  her  any  more 
elaborate  education.  It  is  very  likely  that  to  her  dying  day 
Caterina  thought  the  earth  stood  still,  and  that  the  sun  and 
stars  moved  round  it;  but  so,  for  the  matter  of  that,  did 
Helen,  and  Dido,  and  Desdemona,  and  Juliet;  whence  I  hope 
you  will  not  think  my  Caterina  less  worthy  to  be  a  heroine  on 
that  account.  The  truth  is,  that,  with  one  exception,  her  only 
talent  lay  in  loving ;  and  there,  it  is  probable,  the  most  astro- 
nomical of  women  could  not  have  surpassed  her.  Orphan  and 
protegee  though  she  was,  this  supreme  talent  of  hers  found 
plenty  of  exercise  at  Cheverel  Manor,  and  Caterina  had  more 
people  to  love  than  many  a  small  lady  and  gentleman  affluent 
in  silver  mugs  and  blood  relations.  I  think  the  first  place  in 
her  childish  heart  was  given  to  Sir  Christopher,  for  little  girls 
are  apt  to  attach  themselves  to  the  finest-looking  gentleman  at 
hand,  especially  as  he  seldom  has  anything  to  do  with  disci- 
pline. Next  to  the  Baronet  came  Dorcas,  the  merry  rosy- 
cheeked  damsel  who  was  Mrs.  Sharp's  lieutenant  in  the  nur- 
sery, and  thus  played  the  part  of  the  raisins  in  a  dose  of  senna. 
It  was  a  black  day  for  Caterina  when  Dorcas  married  the 
coachman,  and  went,  with  a  great  sense  of  elevation  in  the 
world,  to  preside  over  a  "  public  "  in  the  noisy  town  of  Slop- 
peter.  A  little  china  box,  bearing  the  motto  "  Though  lost  to 
sight,  to  memory  dear,"  which  Dorcas  sent  her  as  a  remem- 
brance, was  among  Caterina's  treasures  ten  years  after. 

The  one  other  exceptional  talent,  you  already  guess,  was 
music.  When  the  fact  that  Caterina  had  a  remarkable  ear  for 
music,  and  a  still  more  remarkable  voice,  attracted  Lady 
Cheverel 's  notice,  the  discovery  was  very  welcome  both  to  her 
and  Sir  Christopher.  Her  musical  education  became  at  once 
an  object  of  interest.  Lady  Cheverel  devoted  much  time  to 
it;  and  the  rapidity  of  Tina's  progress  surpassing  all  hopes, 
an  Italian  singing-master  was  engaged,  for  several  years,  to 
spend  some  months  together  at  Cheverel  Manor.  This  unex- 
pected gift  made  a  great  alteration  in  Caterina's  position. 
After  those  first  years  in  which  little  girls  are  petted  like  pup- 
pies and  kittens,  there  comes  a  time  when  it  seems  less  obvi- 
ous what  they  can  be  good  for,  especially  when,  like  Caterina, 
they  give  no  particular  promise  of  cleverness  or  beauty ;  and 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  121 

it  is  not  surprising  that  in  that  uninteresting  period  there  was 
no  particular  plan  formed  as  to  her  future  position.  She  could 
always  help  Mrs.  Sharp,  supposing  she  were  fit  for  nothing 
else,  as  she  grew  up ;  but  now,  this  rare  gift  of  song  endeared 
her  to  Lady  Cheverel,  who  loved  music  above  all  things,  and 
it  associated  her  at  once  with  the  pleasures  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Insensibly  she  came  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  the  servants  began  to  understand  that  Miss  Sarti  was 
to  be  a  lady  after  all. 

"And  the  raight  on't  too,"  said  Mr.  Bates,  "for  she  hasn't 
the  cut  of  a  gell  as  must  work  for  her  bread;  she's  as  nesh  an' 
dilicate  as  a  paich-blossom — welly  laike  a  linnet,  wi'  on'y 
joost  body  anoof  to  hold  her  voice." 

But  long  before  Tina  had  reached  this  stage  of  her  history, 
a  new  era  had  begun  for  her,  in  the  arrival  of  a  younger  com- 
panion than  any  she  had  hitherto  known.  When  she  was  no 
more  than  seven,  a  ward  of  Sir  Christopher's — a  lad  of  fif- 
teen, Maynard  Gilfil  by  name — began  to  spend  his  vacations 
at  Cheverel  Manor,  and  found  there  no  playfellow  so  much  to 
his  mind  as  Caterina.  Maynard  was  an  affectionate  lad,  who 
retained  a  propensity  to  white  rabbits,  pet  squirrels,  and 
guinea-pigs,  perhaps  a  little  beyond  the  age  at  which  young 
gentlemen  usually  look  down  on  such  pleasures  as  puerile. 
He  was  also  much  given  to  fishing,  and  to  carpentry,  considered 
as  a  fine  art,  without  any  base  view  to  utility.  And  in  all 
these  pleasures  it  was  his  delight  to  have  Caterina  as  his  com- 
panion, to  call  her  little  pet  names,  answer  her  wondering 
questions,  and  have  her  toddling  after  him  as  you  may  have 
seen  a  Blenheim  spaniel  trotting  after  a  large  setter.  When- 
ever Maynard  went  back  to  school,  there  was  a  little  scene  of 
parting. 

"You  won't  forget  me,  Tina,  before  I  come  back  again?  I 
shall  leave  you  all  the  whipcord  we've  made;  and  don't  you 
let  Guinea  die.  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  promise  not  to  for- 
get me." 

As  the  years  wore  on,  and  Maynard  passed  from  school  to 
college,  and  from  a  slim  lad  to  a  stalwart  young  man,  their 
companionship  in  the  vacations  necessarily  took  a  different 
form,  but  it  retained  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  familiarity. 


122  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

With  Maynard  the  boyish  affection  had  insensibly  grown  into 
ardent  love.  Among  all  the  many  kinds  of  first  love,  that 
which  begins  in  childish  companionship  is  the  strongest  and 
most  enduring :  when  passion  comes  to  unite  its  force  to  long 
affection,  love  is  at  its  spring-tide.  And  Mayiiard  Gilfil's  love 
was  of  a  kind  to  make  him  prefer  being  tormented  by  Caterina 
to  any  pleasure,  apart  from  her,  which  the  most  benevolent 
magician  could  have  devised  for  him.  It  is  the  way  with 
those  tall,  large-limbed  men,  from  Samson  downward.  As 
for  Tina,  the  little  minx  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  May- 
nard was  her  slave ;  he  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  whom 
she  did  as  she  pleased  with;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that  this 
was  a  symptom  of  her  being  perfectly  heart-whole  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned:  for  a  passionate  woman's  love  is  always  over- 
shadowed by  fear. 

Maynard  Giltil  did  not  deceive  himself  in  his  interpretation 
of  Caterina' s  feelings,  but  he  nursed  the  hope  that  some  time 
or  other  she  would  at  least  care  enough  for  him  to  accept  his 
love.  So  he  waited  patiently  for  the  day  when  he  might  ven- 
ture to  say,  "  Caterina,  I  love  you !  "  You  see,  he  would  have 
been  content  with  very  little,  being  one  of  those  men  who  pass 
through  life  without  making  the  least  clamor  about  themselves ; 
thinking  neither  the  cut  of  his  coat,  nor  the  flavor  of  his  soup, 
nor  the  precise  depth  of  a  servant's  bow,  at  all  momentous. 
He  thought — foolishly  enough,  as  lovers  trill  think — that  it 
was  a  good  augury  for  him  when  he  came  to  be  domesticated  at 
Cheverel  Manor  in  the  quality  of  chaplain  there,  and  curate  of 
a  neighboring  parish ;  judging  falsely,  from  his  own  case,  that 
habit  and  affection  were  the  likeliest  avenues  to  love.  Sir 
Christopher  satisfied  several  feelings  in  installing  Maynard  as 
chaplain  in  his  house.  He  liked  the  old-fashioned  dignity  of 
that  domestic  appendage;  he  liked  his  ward's  companionship; 
and,  as  Maynard  had  some  private  fortune,  he  might  take  life 
easily  in  that  agreeable  home,  keeping  his  hunter,  and  observ- 
ing a  mild  regimen  of  clerical  duty,  until  the  Cumbermoor 
living  should  fall  in,  when  he  might  be  settled  for  life  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Manor.  "  With  Caterina  for  a  wife,  too," 
Sir  Christopher  soon  began  to  think ;  for  though  the  good  Bar- 
onet was  not  at  all  quick  to  suspect  what  was  unpleasant  and 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  123 

opposed  to  his  views  of  fitness,  he  was  quick  to  see  what  would, 
dovetail  with  his  own  plans;  and  he  had  first  guessed,  and 
then  ascertained,  by  direct  inquiry,  the  state  of  Maynard's 
feelings.  He  at  ouce  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Caterina 
was  of  the  same  mind,  or  at  least  would  be,  when  she  was  old 
enough.  But  these  were  too  early  days  for  anything  definite 
to  be  said  or  done. 

Meanwhile,  new  circumstances  were  arising,  which,  though 
they  made  no  change  in  Sir  Christopher's  plans  and  prospects, 
converted  Mr.  Gilfil's  hopes  into  anxieties,  and  made  it  clear 
to  him  not  only  that  Caterina' s  heart  was  never  likely  to  be 
his,  but  that  it  was  given  entirely  to  another. 

Once  or  twice  in  Caterina' s  childhood,  there  had  been 
another  boy-visitor  at  the  Manor,  younger  than  Maynard  Gil- 
fil — a  beautiful  boy  with  brown  curls  and  splendid  clothes,  on 
whom  Caterina  had  looked  with  shy  admiration.  This  was 
Anthony  Wybrow,  the  son  of  Sir  Christopher's  younger  sister, 
and  chosen  heir  of  Cheverel  Manor.  The  Baronet  had  sacri- 
ficed a  large  sum,  and  even  straitened  the  resources  by  which 
he  was  to  carry  out  his  architectural  schemes,  for  the  sake  of 
removing  the  entail  from  his  estate,  and  making  this  boy  his 
heir — -moved  to  the  step,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  an  implacable 
quarrel  with  his  elder  sister ;  for  a  power  of  forgiveness  was 
not  among  Sir  Christopher's  virtues.  At  length,  on  the  death 
of  Anthony's  mother,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  curly-headed 
boy,  but  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  captain's  commission,  Chev- 
erel Manor  became  h-is  home  too,  whenever  he  was  absent  from 
his  regiment.  Caterina  was  then  a  little  woman,  between 
sixteen  and  seventeen,  and  I  need  not  spend  many  words  in 
explaining  what  you  perceive  to  be  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world. 

There  was  little  company  kept  at  the  Manor,  and  Captain 
Wybrow  would  have  been  much  duller  if  Caterina  had  not 
been  there.  It  was  pleasant  to  pay  her  attentions — to  speak 
to  her  in  gentle  tones,  to  see  her  little  flutter  of  pleasure,  the 
blush  that  just  lit  up  her  pale  cheek,  and  the  momentary  timid 
glance  of  her  dark  eyes,  when  he  praised  her  singing,  leaning 
at  her  side  over  the  piano.  Pleasant,  too,  to  cut  out  that 
chaplain  with  his  large  calves!  What  idle  man  can  with- 


124  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

stand  the  temptation  of  a  woman  to  fascinate,  and  another 
man  to  eclipse? — especially  when  it  is  quite  clear  to  himself 
that  he  means  no  mischief,  and  shall  leave  everything  to  come 
right  again  by  and  by.  At  the  end  of  eighteen  months,  how- 
ever, during  which  Captain  Wybrow  had  spent  much  of  his 
time  at  the  Manor,  he  found  that  matters  had  reached  a  point 
which  he  had  not  at  all  contemplated.  Gentle  tones  had  led 
to  tender  words,  and  tender  words  had  called  forth  a  response 
of  looks  which  made  it  impossible  not  to  carry  on  the  crescendo 
of  love-making.  To  find  one's  self  adored  by  a  little,  grace- 
ful, dark-eyed,  sweet-singing  woman,  whom  no  one  need  de- 
spise, is  an  agreeable  sensation,  comparable  to  smoking  the 
finest  Latakia,  and  also  imposes  some  return  of  tenderness  as 
a  duty. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  Captain  Wybrow,  who  knew  that 
it  would  be  ridiculous  to  dream  of  his  marrying  Caterina,  must 
have  been  a  reckless  libertine  to  win  her  affections  iu  this 
manner !  Not  at  all.  He  was  a  young  man  of  calm  passions, 
who  was  rarely  led  into  any  conduct  of  which  he  could  not 
give  a  plausible  account  of  himself;  and  the  tiny  fragile 
Caterina  was  a  woman  who  touched  the  imagination  and  the 
affections  rather  than  the  senses.  He  really  felt  very  kindly 
toward  her,  and  would  very  likely  have  loved  her — if  he  had 
been  able  to  love  any  one.  But  nature  had  not  endowed  him 
with  that  capability.  She  had  given  him  an  admirable  figure, 
the  whitest  of  hands,  the  most  delicate  of  nostrils,  and  a  large 
amount  of  serene  self-satisfaction ;  but,  as  if  to  save  such  a 
delicate  piece  of  work  from  any  risk  of  being  shattered,  she 
had  guarded  him  from  the  liability  to  a  strong  emotion. 
There  was  no  list  of  youthful  misdemeanors  on  record  against 
him,  and  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  thought  him  the 
best  of  nephews,  the  most  satisfactory  of  heirs,  full  of  grate- 
ful deference  to  themselves,  and,  above  all  things,  guided  by 
a  sense  of  duty.  Captain  Wybrow  always  did  the  thing  easi- 
est and  most  agreeable  to  him  from  a  sense  of  duty :  he  dressed 
expensively,  because  it  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  his  position; 
from  a  sense  of  duty  he  adapted  himself  to  Sir  Christopher's 
inflexible  will,  which  it  would  have  been  troublesome  as  well 
as  useless  to  resist;  and,  being  of  a  delicate  constitution,  he 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE  STORY.  125 

took  care  of  his  health  from  a  sense  of  duty.  His  health  was 
the  only  point  on  which  he  gave  anxiety  to  his  friends ;  and 
it  was  owing  to  this  that  Sir  Christopher  wished  to  see  his 
nephew  early  married,  the  more  so  as  a  match  after  the  Bar- 
onet's own  heart  appeared  immediately  attainable.  Anthony 
had  seen  and  admired  Miss  Assher,  the  only  child  of  a  lady 
who  had  been  Sir  Christopher's  earliest  love,  but  who,  as 
things  will  happen  in  this  world,  had  married  another  baro- 
net instead  of  him.  Miss  Assher's  father  was  now  dead,  and 
she  was  in  possession  of  a  pretty  estate.  If,  as  was  probable, 
she  should  prove  susceptible  to  the  merits  of  Anthony's  per- 
son and  character,  nothing  could  make  Sir  Christopher  so 
happy  as  to  see  a  marriage  which  might  be  expected  to  secure 
the  inheritance  of  Cheverel  Manor  from  getting  into  the  wrong 
hands.  Anthony  had  already  been  kindly  received  by  Lady 
Assher  as  the  nephew  of  her  early  friend ;  why  should  he  not 
go  to  Bath,  where  she  and  her  daughter  were  then  residing, 
follow  up  the  acquaintance,  and  win  a  handsome,  well-born, 
and  sufficiently  wealthy  bride? 

Sir  Christopher's  wishes  were  communicated  to  her  nephew, 
who  at  once  intimated  his  willingnness  to  comply  with  them 
—from  a  sense  of  duty.  Cateriua  was  tenderly  informed  by 
her  lover  of  the  sacrifice  demanded  from  them  both ;  and  three 
days  afterward  occurred  the  parting  scene  you  have  witnessed 
in  the  gallery,  on  the  eve  of  Captain  Wybrow's  departure  for 
Bath. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  inexorable  ticking  of  the  clock  is  like  the  throb  of  pain 
to  sensations  made  keen  by  a  sickening  fear.  And  so  it  is 
with  the  great  clockwork  of  nature.  Daisies  and  buttercups 
give  way  to  the  brown  waving  grasses,  tinged  with  the  warm 
red  sorrel  j  the  waving  grasses  are  swept  away,  and  the  mead- 
ows lie  like  emeralds  set  in  the  bushy  hedgerows ;  the  tawny- 
tipped  corn  begins  to  bow  with  the  weight  of  the  full  ear ; 
the  reapers  are  bending  amongst  it,  and  it  soon  stands  in 
sheaves;  then,  presently,  the  patches  of  yellow  stubble  lie 


126  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

side  by  side  with  streaks  of  dark-red  earth,  which  the  plough 
is  turning  up  in  preparation  for  the  new-threshed  seed.  And 
this  passage  from  beauty  to  beauty,  which  to  the  happy  is  like 
the  flow  of  a  melody,  measures  for  many  a  human  heart  the 
approach  of  foreseen  anguish — seems  hurrying  on  the  moment 
when  the  shadow  of  dread  will  be  followed  up  by  the  reality 
of  despair. 

How  cruelly  hasty  that  summer  of  1788  seemed  to  Caterina! 
Surely  the  roses  vanished  earlier,  and  the  berries  on  the  moun- 
tain-ash were  more  impatient  to  redden,  and  bring  on  the  au- 
tumn, when  she  would  be  face  to  face  with  her  misery,  and 
witness  Anthony  giving  all  his  gentle  tones,  tender  words,  and 
soft  looks  to  another. 

Before  the  end  of  July,  Captain  Wybrow  had  written  word 
that  Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter  were  about  to  fly  from  the 
heat  and  gayety  of  Bath  to  the  shady  quiet  of  their  place  at 
Farleigh,  and  that  he  was  invited  to  join  the  party  there. 
His  letters  implied  that  he  was  on  an  excellent  footing  with 
both  the  ladies,  and  gave  no  hint  of  a  rival;  so  that  Sir  Chris- 
topher was  more  than  usually  bright  and  cheerful  after  reading 
them.  At  length,  toward  the  close  of  August,  came  the  an- 
nouncement that  Captain  Wybrow  was  an  accepted  lover,  and 
after  much  complimentary  and  congratulatory  correspondence 
between  the  two  families,  it  was  understood  that  in  Septem- 
ber Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter  would  pay  a  visit  to  Chev- 
erel  Manor,  when  Beatrice  would  make  the  acquaintance  of 
her  future  relatives,  and  all  needful  arrangements  could  be 
discussed.  Captain  Wybrow  would  remain  at  Farleigh  till 
then,  and  accompany  the  ladies  on  their  -journey. 

In  the  interval,  every  one  at  Cheverel  Manor  had  something 
to  do  by  way  of  preparing  for  the  visitors.  Sir  Christopher 
was  occupied  in  consultations  with  his  steward  and  lawyer,  and 
in  giving  orders  to  every  one  else,  especially  in  spurring  on 
Francesco  to  finish  the  saloon.  Mr.  Gilfil  had  the  responsi- 
bility of  procuring  a  lady's  horse,  Miss  Assher  being  a  great 
rider.  Lady  Cheverel  had  unwonted  calls  to  make  and  invi- 
tations to  deliver.  Mr.  Bates's  turf,  and  gravel,  and  flower- 
beds were  always  at  such  a  point  of  neatness  and  finish  that 
nothing  extraordinary  could  be  done  in  the  garden,  except  a 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  127 

little  extraordinary  scolding  to  the  under-gardener,  and  this 
addition  Mr.  Bates  did  not  neglect. 

Happily  for  Caterina,  she  too  had  her  task,  to  fill  up  the 
long  dreary  daytime :  it  was  to  finish  a  chair-cushion  which 
would  complete  the  set  of  embroidered  covers  for  the  drawing- 
room,  Lady  Cheverel's  year-long  work,  and  the  only  note- 
worthy bit  of  furniture  in  the  Manor.  Over  this  embroidery 
she  sat  with  cold  lips  and  a  palpitating  heart,  thankful  that 
this  miserable  sensation  throughout  the  daytime  seemed  to 
counteract  the  tendency  to  tears  which  returned  with  night 
and  solitude.  She  was  most  frightened  when  Sir  Christopher 
approached  her.  The  Baronet's  eye  was  brighter  and  his  step 
more  elastic  than  ever,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  only  the 
most  leaden  or  churlish  souls  could  be  otherwise  than  brisk 
and  exulting  in  a  world  where  everything  went  so  well.  Dear 
old  gentleman !  he  had  gone  through  life  a  little  flushed  with 
the  power  of  his  will,  and  now  his  latest  plan  was  succeeding, 
and  Cheverel  Manor  would  be  inherited  by  a  grand-nephew, 
whom  he  might  even  yet  live  to  see  a  fine  young  fellow  with 
at  least  the  down  on  his  chin.  Why  not?  one  is  still  young 
at  sixty. 

Sir  Christopher  had  always  something  playful  to  say  to 
Caterina. 

"  Now,  little  monkey,  you  must  be  in  your  best  voice ;  you're 
the  minstrel  of  the  Manor,  you  know,  and  be  sure  you  have  a 
pretty  gown  and  a  new  ribbon.  You  must  not  be  dressed  in 
russet,  though  you  are  a  singing-bird. "  Or  perhaps,  "  It  is 
your  turn  to  be  courted  next,  Tina.  But  don't  you  learn  any 
naughty  proud  airs.  I  must  have  Maynard  let  off  easily." 

Caterina' s  affection  for  the  old  Baronet  helped  her  to  sum- 
mon up  a  smile  as  he  stroked  her  cheek  and  looked  at  her 
kindly,  but  that  was  the  moment  at  which  she  felt  it  most 
difficult  not  to  burst  out  crying.  Lady  Cheverel's  conversa- 
tion and  presence  were  less  trying ;  for  her  ladyship  felt  no 
more  than  calm  satisfaction  in  this  family  event;  and  besides, 
she  was  further  sobered  by  a  little  jealousy  at  Sir  Christo- 
pher's anticipation  of  pleasure  in  seeing  Lady  Assher,  en- 
shrined in  his  memory  as  a  mild-eyed  beauty  of  sixteen,  with 
whom  he  had  exchanged  locks  before  he  went  on  his  first 


128  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

travels.  Lady  Cheverel  would  have  died  rather  than  confess 
it,  but  she  couldn't  help  hoping  that  he  would  be  disappointed 
in  Lady  Assher,  and  rather  ashamed  of  having  called  her  so 
charming. 

Mr.  Gilfil  watched  Caterina  through  these  days  with  mixed 
feelings.  Her  suffering  went  to  his  heart;  but,  even  for  her 
sake,  he  was  glad  that  a  love  which  could  never  come  to  good 
should  be  no  longer  fed  by  false  hopes;  and  how  could  he 
help  saying  to  himself :  "  Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Caterina  will 
be  tired  of  fretting  about  that  cold-hearted  puppy,  and 
then.  ..." 

At  length  the  much-expected  day  arrived,  and  the  brightest 
of  September  suns  was  lighting  up  the  yellowing  lime-trees, 
as  about  five  o'clock  Lady  Assher's  carriage  drove  under  the 
portico.  Caterina,  seated  at  work  in  her  own  room,  heard  the 
rolling  of  the  wheels,  followed  presently  by  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  doors,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  corridors. 
Remembering  that  the  dinner-hour  was  six,  and  that  Lady 
Cheverel  had  desired  her  to  be  in  the  drawing-room  early,  she 
started  up  to  dress,  and  was  delighted  to  find  herself  feeling 
suddenly  brave  and  strong.  Curiosity  to  see  Miss  Assher — the 
thought  that  Anthony  was  in  the  house — the  wish  not  to  look 
unattractive,  were  feelings  that  brought  some  color  to  her  lips, 
and  made  it  easy  to  attend  to  her  toilet.  They  would  ask  her 
to  sing  this  evening,  and  she  would  sing  well.  Miss  Assher 
should  not  think  her  utterly  insignificant.  So  she  put  on  her 
gray  silk  gown  and  her  cherry-colored  ribbon  with  as  much 
care  as  if  she  had  been  herself  the  betrothed ;  not  forgetting 
the  pair  of  round  pearl  ear-rings  which  Sir  Christopher  had 
told  Lady  Cheverel  to  give  her,  because  Tina's  little  ears  were 
so  pretty. 

Quick  as  she  had  been,  she  found  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  in  the  drawing-room  chatting  with  Mr.  Gilfil,  and 
telling  him  how  handsome  Miss  Assher  was,  but  now  entirely 
unlike  her  mother — apparently  resembling  her  father  only. 

"  Aha !  "  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  turned  to  look  at  Cat- 
erina, "what  do  you  think  of  this,  Maynard?  Did  you  ever 
see  Tina  look  so  pretty  before?  Why,  that  little  gray  gown 
has  been  made  out  of  a  bit  of  my  lady's,  hasn't  it?  It  doesn't 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  129 

take  anything  much  larger  than  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  dress 
the  little  monkey." 

Lady  Cheverel,  too,  serenely  radiant  in  the  assurance  a  sin- 
gle glance  had  given  her  of  Lady  Assher's  inferiority,  smiled 
approval,  and  Caterina  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of  self-pos- 
session and  indifference  which  come  as  the  ebb-tide  between 
the  struggles  of  passion.  She  retired  to  the  piano,  and  busied 
herself  with  arranging  her  music,  not  at  all  insensible  to  the 
pleaure  of  being  looked  at  with  admiration  the  while,  and 
thinking  that,  the  next  time  the  door  opened,  Captain  Wybrow 
would  enter,  and  she  would  speak  to  him  quite  cheerfully. 
But  when  she  heard  him  come  in,  and  the  scent  of  roses  floated 
toward  her,  her  heart  gave  one  great  leap.  She  knew  nothing 
till  he  was  pressing  her  hand,  and  saying,  in  the  old  easy 
way :  "  Well,  Caterina,  how  do  you  do?  You  look  quite 
blooming. " 

She  felt  her  cheeks  reddening  with  anger  that  he  could 
speak  and  look  with  such  perfect  nonchalance.  Ah!  he  was 
too  deeply  in  love  with  some  one  else  to  remember  anything 
he  had  felt  for  her.  But  the  next  moment  she  was  conscious 
of  her  folly ; — "  as  if  he  could  show  any  feeling  then !  "  This 
conflict  of  emotions  stretched  into  a  long  interval  the  few  mo- 
ments that  elapsed  before  the  door  opened  again,  and  her  own 
attention,  as  well  as  that  of  all  the  rest,  was  absorbed  by  the 
entrance  of  the  two  ladies. 

The  daughter  was  the  more  striking,  from  the  contrast  she 
presented  to  her  mother,  a  round-shouldered,  middle-sized 
woman,  who  had  once  had  the  transient  pink-and-white  beauty 
of  a  blonde,  with  ill-defined  features  and  early  embonpoint. 
Miss  Assher  was  tall,  and  gracefully  though  substantially 
formed,  carrying  herself  with  an  air  of  mingled  graciousness 
and  self-confidence ;  her  dark-brown  hair,  untouched  by  pow- 
der, hanging  in  bushy  curls  round  her  face,  and  falling  behind 
in  long  thick  ringlets  nearly  to  her  waist.  The  brilliant  car- 
mine tint  of  her  well-rounded  cheeks,  and  the  finely  cut  out- 
line of  her  straight  nose,  produced  an  impression  of  splendid 
beauty,  in  spite  of  commonplace  brown  eyes,  a  narrow  fore- 
head, and  thin  lips.  She  was  in  mourning,  and  the  dead  black 
of  her  crape  dress,  relieved  here  and  there  by  jet  ornaments, 


130  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

gave  the  fullest  effect  to  her  complexion,  and  to  the  rounded 
whiteness  of  her  arms,  bare  from  the  elbow.  The  first  coup 
cVcell  was  dazzling,  and  as  she  stood  looking  down  with  a  gra- 
cious smile  on  Caterina,  whom  Lady  Cheverel  was  presenting 
to  her,  the  poor  little  thing  seemed  to  herself  to  feel,  for  the 
first  time,  all  the  folly  of  her  former  dream. 

"  We  are  enchanted  with  your  place,  Sir  Christopher,"  said 
Lady  Assher,  with  a  feeble  kind  of  ponipousness,  whicn  she 
seemed  to  be  copying  from  some  one  else;  "I'm  sure  your 
nephew  must  have  thought  Farleigh  wretchedly  out  of  order. 
Poor  Sir  John  was  so  very  careless  about  keeping  up  the  house 
and  grounds.  I  often  talked  to  him  about  it,  but  he  said, 
'Pooh,  pooh!  as  long  as  my  friends  find  a  good  dinner  and 
a  good  bottle  of  wine,  they  won't  care  about  my  ceilings 
being  rather  smoky.'  He  was  so  very  hospitable,  was  Sir 
John." 

"  I  think  the  view  of  the  house  from  the  park,  just  after  we 
passed  the  bridge,  particularly  fine,"  said  Miss  Assher,  inter- 
posing rather  eagerly,  as  if  she  feared  her  mother  might  be 
making  infelicitous  speeches,  "  and  the  pleasure  of  the  first 
glimpse  was  all  the  greater  because  Anthony  would  describe 
nothing  to  us  beforehand.  He  would  not  spoil  our  first  im- 
pressions by  raising  false  ideas.  I  long  to  go  over  the  house, 
Sir  Christopher,  and  learn  the  history  of  all  your  architectural 
designs,  which  Anthony  says  have  cost  you  so  much  time  and 
study." 

"  Take  care  how  you  set  an  old  man  talking  about  the  past, 
my  dear,"  said  the  Baronet;  "I  hope  we  shall  find  something 
pleasanter  for  you  to  do  than  turning  over  my  old  plans  and 
pictures.  Our  friend  Mr.  Gilfil  here  has  found  a  beautiful 
mare  for  you,  and  you  can  scour  the  country  to  your  heart's 
content.  Anthony  has  sent  us  word  what  a  horsewoman  you 
are." 

1  Miss  Assher  turned  to  Mr.  Gilfil  with  her  most  beaming 
smile,  and  expressed  her  thanks  with  the  elaborate  gracious- 
ness  of  a  person  who  means  to  be  thought  charming,  and  is 
sure  of  success. 

"  Pray  do  not  thank  me, "  said  Mr.  Gilfil,  "  till  you  have 
tried  the  mare.  She  has  been  ridden  by  Lady  Sara  Linter 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  131 

for  the  last  two  years;  but  one  lady's  taste  may  not  be  like 
another's  in  horses,  any  more  than  in  other  matters." 

While  this  conversation  was  passing,  Captain  Wybrow  was 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  contenting  himself  with  re- 
sponding from  under  his  indolent  eyelids  to  the  glances  Miss 
Assher  was  constantly  directing  toward  him  as  she  spoke. 
"  She  is  very  much  in  love  with  him,"  thought  Caterina.  But 
she  was  relieved  that  Anthony  remained  passive  in  his  atten- 
tions. She  thought,  too,  that  he  was  looking  paler  and 
more  languid  than  usual.  "  If  he  didn't  love  her  very 
much — if  he  sometimes  thought  of  the  past  with  regret, 
I  think  I  could  bear  it  all,  and  be  glad  to  see  Sir  Chris- 
topher made  happy." 

During  dinner  there  was  a  little  incident  which  confirmed 
these  thoughts.  When  the  sweets  were  on  the  table,  there 
was  a  mould  of  jelly  just  opposite  Captain  Wybrow,  and 
being  inclined  to  take  some  himself,  he  first  invited  Miss 
Assher,  who  colored,  and  said,  in  rather  a  sharper  key  than 
usual,  "  Have  you  not  learned  by  this  time  that  I  never  take 
jelly?" 

"  Don't  you? "  said  Captain  Wybrow,  whose  perceptions 
were  not  acute  enough  for  him  to  notice  the  difference  of  a 
semitone.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  were  fond  of  it.  There 
was  always  some  on  the  table  at  Farleigh,  I  think." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  my  likes  and 
dislikes." 

"  I'm  too  much  possessed  by  the  happy  thought  that  you 
like  me,"  was  the  ex-qfficio  reply,  in  silvery  tones. 

This  little  episode  was  unnoticed  by  every  one  but  Caterina. 
Sir  Christopher  was  listening  with  polite  attention  to  Lady- 
Assher' s  history  of  her  last  man -cook,  who  was  first-rate  at 
gravies,  and  for  that  reason  pleased  Sir  John — he  was  so  par- 
ticular about  his  gravies,  was  Sir  John :  and  so  they  kept  the 
man  six  years  in  spite  of  his  bad  pastry.  Lady  Cheverel  and 
Mr.  Gilfil  were  smiling  at  Rupert  the  bloodhound,  who  had 
pushed  his  great  head  under  his  master's  arm,  and  was  taking 
.  a  survey  of  the  dishes,  after  snuffing  at  the  contents  of  the 
Baronet's  plate. 

When  the  ladies  were  in  the  drawing-room  again,  Lady 


132  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Assher  was  soon  deep  in  a  statement  to  Lady  Cheverel  of  her 
views  about  burying  people  in  woollen. 

"  To  be  sure,  you  must  have  a  woollen  dress,  because  it's  the 
law,  you  know;  but  that  need  hinder  no  one  from  putting 
linen  underneath.  I  always  used  to  say,  '  If  Sir  John  die*d 
to-morrow,  I  would  bury  him  in  his  shirt ' ;  and  I  did.  And 
let  me  advise  you  to  do  so  by  Sir  Christopher.  You  never 
saw  Sir  John,  Lady  Cheverel.  He  was  a  large  tall  man,  with 
a  nose  just  like  Beatrice,  and  so  very  particular  about  his 
shirts." 

Miss  Assher,  meanwhile,  had  seated  herself  by  Caterina, 
and,  with  that  smiling  affability  which  seems  to  say,  "  I  am 
really  not  at  all  proud,  though  you  might  expect  it  of  me," 
said — 

"  Anthony  tells  me  you  sing  so  very  beautifully.  I  hope 
we  shall  hear  you  this  evening. " 

"  Oh  yes, "  said  Caterina,  quietly,  without  smiling ;  "  I  al- 
ways sing  when  I  am  wanted  to  sing. " 

"  I  envy  you  such  a  charming  talent.  Do  you  now,  I  have 
no  ear;  I  cannot  hum  the  smallest  tune,  and  I  delight  in 
music  so.  Is  it  not  unfortunate?  But  I  shall  have  quite  a 
treat  while  I  am  here;  Captain  Wybrow  says  you  will  give  us 
some  music  every  day." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  wouldn't  care  about  music  if 
you  had  no  ear,"  said  Caterina,  becoming  epigrammatic  by 
force  of  grave  simplicity. 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,  I  dote  on  it ;  and  Anthony  is  so  fond  of 
it ;  it  would  be  so  delightful  if  I  could  play  and  sing  to  him ; 
though  he  says  he  likes  me  best  not  to  sing,  because  it  doesn't 
belong  to  his  idea  of  me.  "What  style  of  music  do  you  like 
best?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  like  all  beautiful  music." 

"  And  are  you  as  fond  of  riding  as  of  music?  " 

"No;  I  never  ride.     I  think  I  should  be  very  frightened." 

"Oh,  no!  indeed  you  would  not,  after  a  little  practice.  I 
have  never  been  in  the  least  timid.  I  think  Anthony  is  more 
afraid  for  me  than  I  am  for  myself;  and  since  I  have  been 
riding  with  him,  I  have  been  obliged  to  be  more  careful,  be- 
cause he  is  so  nervous  about  me." 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  133 

Caterina  made  no  reply ;  but  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  wish 
she  would  go  away  and  not  talk  to  me.  She  only  wants  me 
to  admire  her  good-nature,  and  to  talk  about  Anthony." 

Miss  Assher  was  thinking  at  the  same  time,  "  This  Miss 
Sarti  seems  a  stupid  little  thing.  Those  musical  people  often 
are.  But  she  is  prettier  than  I  expected;  Anthony  said  she 
was  not  pretty." 

Happily  at  this  moment  Lady  Assher  called  her  daughter's 
attention  to  the  embroidered  cushions,  and  Miss  Assher,  walk- 
ing to  the  opposite  sofa,  was  soon  in  conversation  with  Lady 
Cheverel  about  tapestry  and  embroidery  in  general,  while  her 
mother,  feeling  herself  superseded  there,  came  and  placed  her- 
self beside  Caterina. 

"  I  hear  you  are  the  most  beautiful  singer, "  was  of  course 
the  opening  remark.  "  All  Italians  sing  so  beautifully.  I 
travelled  in  Italy  with  Sir  John  when  we  were  first  married, 
and  we  went  to  Venice,  where  they  go  about  in  gondolas,  you 
know.  You  don't  wear  powder,  I  see.  No  more  will  Bea- 
trice; though  many  people  think  her  curls  would  look  all  the 
better  for  powder.  She  has  so  much  hair,  hasn't  she?  Our 
last  maid  dressed  it  much  better  than  this;  but,  do  you  know, 
she  wore  Beatrice's  stockings  before  they  went  to  the  wash, 
and  we  couldn't  keep  her  after  that,  could  we?  " 

Caterina,  accepting  the  question  as  a  mere  bit  of  rhetorical 
effect,  thought  it  superfluous  to  reply,  till  Lady  Assher  re- 
peated, "Could  we,  now?"  as  if  Tina's  sanction  were  essen- 
tial to  her  repose  of  mind.  After  a  faint  "  No  "  she  went  on. 

"  Maids  are  so  very  troublesome,  and  Beatrice  is  so  particu- 
lar, you  can't  imagine.  I  often  say  to  her,  '  My  dear,  you 
can't  have  perfection.'  That  very  gown  she  has  on — to  be 
sure,  it  fits  her  beautifully  now — but  it  has  been  unmade  and 
made  up  again  twice.  But  she  is  like  poor  Sir  John — he  was 
so  very  particular  about  his  own  things,  was  Sir  John.  Is 
Lady  Cheverel  particular?" 

"Rather.  But  Mrs.  Sharp  has  been  her  maid  twenty 
years." 

"  I  wish  there  was  any  chance  of  our  keeping  Griffin  twenty 
years.  But  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  part  with  her  because 
her  health  is  so  delicate  j  and  she  is  so  obstinate,  she  will  not 


134  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

take  bitters  as  I  want  her.  You  look  delicate,  now.  Let  me 
recommend  you  to  take  camomile  tea  in  a  morning,  fasting. 
Beatrice  is  so  strong  and  healthy,  she  never  takes  any  medi- 
cine; but  if  I  had  had  twenty  girls,  and  they  had  been  deli- 
cate, I  should  have  given  them  all  camomile  tea.  It  strength- 
ens the  constitution  beyond  anything.  Now,  will  you  promise 
me  to  take  camomile  tea?  " 

"Thank  you;  I'm  not  at  all  ill,"  said  Caterina.  "I've  al- 
ways been  pale  and  thin." 

Lady  Assher  was  sure  camomile  tea  would  make  all  the  dif- 
ference in  the  world — Caterina  must  see  if  it  wouldn't — and 
then  went  dribbling  on  like  a  leaky  shower-bath,  until  the 
early  entrance  of  the  gentlemen  created  a  diversion,  and  she 
fastened  on  Sir  Christopher,  who  probably  began  to  think 
that,  for  poetical  purposes,  it  would  be  better  not  to  meet 
one's  first  love  again,  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years. 

Captain  Wybrow,  of  course,  joined  his  aunt  and  Miss  As- 
sher, and  Mr.  Gilfil  tried  to  relieve  Caterina  from  the  awkward- 
ness of  sitting  aloof  and  dumb,  by  telling  her  how  a  friend  of 
his  had  broken  his  arm  and  staked  his  horse  that  morning,  not 
at  all  appearing  to  heed  that  she  hardly  listened,  and  was 
looking  toward  the  other  side  of  the  room.  One  of  the  tor- 
tures of  jealousy  is,  that  it  can  never  turn  away  its  eyes  from 
the  thing  that  pains  it. 

By-and-by  every  one  felt  the  need  of  a  relief  from  chit-chat 
— Sir  Christopher  perhaps  the  most  of  all — and  it  was  he  who 
made  the  acceptable  proposition — 

"  Come,  Tina,  are  we  to  have  no  music  to-night  before 
we  sit  down  to  cards?  Your  ladyship  plays  at  cards,  I 
think?"  he  added,  recollecting  himself,  and  turning  to 
Lady  Assher. 

"  Oh  yes !  Poor  dear  Sir  John  would  have  a  whist-table 
every  night." 

Caterina  sat  down  to  the  harpischord  at  once,  and  had  no 
sooner  begun  to  sing  than  she  perceived  with  delight  that  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  was  gliding  toward  the  harpsichord,  and  soon 
standing  in  the  old  place.  This  consciousness  gave  fresh 
strength  to  her  voice;  and  when  she  noticed  that  Miss  Assher 
presently  followed  him  with  that  air  of  ostentatious  adrnira- 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  135 

tion  which  belongs  to  the  absence  of  real  enjoyment,  her  clos- 
ing bravura  was  none  the  worse  for  being  animated  by  a  little 
triumphant  contempt. 

"Why,  you  are  in  better  voice  than  ever,  Caterina,"  said 
Captain  Wybrow,  when  she  had  ended.  "  This  is  rather  dif- 
ferent from  Miss  Hibbert's  small  piping  that  we  used  to  be 
glad  of  at  Farleigh,  is  it  not,  Beatrice?" 

"  Indeed  it  is.  You  are  a  most  enviable  creature,  Miss 
Sarti- — Caterina — may  I  not  call  you  Caterina?  for  I  have 
heard  Anthony  speak  of  you  so  often,  I  seem  to  know  you 
quite  well.  You  will  let  me  call  you  Caterina?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  every  one  calls  me  Caterina,  only  when  they  call 
me  Tina." 

"Come,  come,  more  singing,  more  singing,  little  monkey," 
Sir  Christopher  called  out  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
"  A  Ye  have  not  had  half  enough  yet." 

Caterina  was  ready  enough  to  obey,  for  while  she  was  sing- 
ing she  was  queen  of  the  room,  and  Miss  Assher  was  reduced 
to  grimacing  admiration.  Alas!  you  see  what  jealousy  was 
doing  in  this  poor  young  soul.  Caterina,  who  had  passed  her 
life  as  a  little  unobtrusive  singing-bird,  nestling  so  fondly 
under  the  wings  that  were  outstretched  for  her,  her  heart 
beating  only  to  the  peaceful  rhythm  of  love,  or  fluttering  with 
some  easily  stifled  fear,  had  begun  to  know  the  fierce  palpita- 
tions of  triumph  and  hatred. 

"When  the  singing  was  over,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  sat  down  to  whist  with  Lady  Assher  and  Mr.  Gilfil, 
and  Caterina  placed  herself  at  the  Baronet's  elbow,  as  if  to 
watch  the  game,  that  she  might  not  appear  to  thrust  herself 
on  the  pair  of  lovers.  At  first  she  was  glowing  with  her  little 
triumph,  and  felt  the  strength  of  pride;  but  her  eye  would 
steal  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  where  Captain  "Wy- 
brow had  seated  himself  close  to  Miss  Assher,  and  was  lean- 
ing with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  the  most  lover- 
like  position.  Caterina  began  to  feel  a  choking  sensation. 
She  could  see,  almost  without  looking,  that  he  was  taking  up 
her  arm  to  examine  her  bracelet;  their  heads  were  bending 
close  together,  her  curls  touching  his  cheek — now  he  was  put- 
ting his  lips  to  her  hand.  Caterina  felt  her  cheeks  burn — she 


136  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

could  sit  no  longer.  She  got  up,  pretended  to  be  gliding 
about  in  search  of  something,  and  at  length  slipped  out  of 
the  room. 

Outside,  she  took  a  candle,  and,  hurrying  along  the  pas- 
sages and  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room,  locked  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it,  I  cannot  bear  it ! "  the  poor  thing 
burst  out  aloud,  clasping  her  little  fingers,  and  pressing  them 
back  against  her  forehead,  as  if  she  wanted  to  break  them. 

Then  she  walked  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"And  this  must  go  on  for  days  and  days,  and  I  must 
see  it." 

She  looked  about  nervously  for  something  to  clutch.  There 
was  a  muslin  kerchief  lying  on  the  table ;  she  took  it  up  and 
tore  it  into  shreds  as  she  walked  up  and  down,  and  then 
pressed  it  into  hard  balls  in  her  hand. 

"  And  Anthony, "  she  thought,  "  he  can  do  this  without  car- 
ing for  what  I  feel.  Oh,  he  can  forget  everything:  how  he 
used  to  say  he  loved  me — -how  he  used  to  take  my  hand  in  his 
as  we  walked — how  he  used  to  stand  near  me  in  the  evenings 
for  the  sake  of  looking  into  my  eyes." 

"  Oh,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  cruel !  "  she  burst  out  again  aloud,  as 
all  those  love-moments  in  the  past  returned  upon  her.  Then 
the  tears  gushed  forth,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the 
bed,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  there,  till  she  was 
startled  by  the  prayer-bell;  when,  thinking  Lady  Cheverel 
might  perhaps  send  some  one  to  inquire  after  her,  she  rose,  and 
began  hastily  to  undress,  that  there  might  be  no  possibility  of 
her  going  down  again.  She  had  hardly  unfastened  her  hair, 
and  thrown  a  loose  gown  about  her,  before  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Sharp's  voice  said — "Miss  Tina,  my 
lady  wants  to  know  if  you're  ill." 

Caterina  opened  the  door  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs. 
Sharp ;  I  have  a  bad  headache ;  please  tell  my  lady  I  felt  it 
come  on  after  singing. " 

"Then,  goodness  me!  why  aren't  you  in  bed,  instead  o' 
standing  shivering  there,  fit  to  catch  your  death?  Come,  let 
me  fasten  up  your  hair  and  tuck  you  up  warm." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you ;    I  shall  really  be  in  bed  very  soon. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  137 

Good-night,  dear  Sharpy;  don't  scold;  I  will  be  good,  and 
get  into  bed." 

Caterina  kissed  her  old  friend  coaxingly,  but  Mrs.  Sharp 
was  not  to  be  "  come  over  "  in  that  way,  and  insisted  on  see- 
ing her  former  charge  in  bed,  taking  away  the  candle  which 
the  poor  child  had  wanted  to  keep  as  a  companion. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  lie  there  long  with  that  beating 
heart ;  and  the  little  white  figure  was  soon  out  of  bed  again, 
seeking  relief  in  the  very  sense  of  chill  and  uncomfort.  It 
was  light  enough  for  her  to  see  about  her  room,  for  the  moon, 
nearly  at  full,  was  riding  high  in  the  heavens  among  scattered 
hurrying  clouds.  Caterina  drew  aside  the  window-curtain, 
and,  sitting  with  her  forehead  pressed  against  the  cold  pane, 
looked  out  on  the  wide  stretch  of  park  and  lawn. 

How  dreary  the  moonlight  is!  robbed  of  all  its  tenderness 
and  repose  by  the  hard  driving  wind.  The  trees  are  harassed 
by  that  tossing  motion,  when  they  would  like  to  be  at  rest; 
the  shivering  grass  makes  her  quake  with  sympathetic  cold; 
and  the  willows  by  the  pool,  bent  low  and  white  under  that 
invisible  harshness,  seem  agitated  and  helpless  like  herself. 
But  she  loves  the  scene  the  better  for  its  sadness :  there  is 
some  pity  in  it.  It  is  not  like  that  hard  unfeeling  happiness 
of  lovers,  flaunting  in  the  eyes  of  misery. 

She  set  her  teeth  tight  against  the  window-frame,  and  the 
tears  fell  thick  and  fast.  She  was  so  thankful  she  could  cry, 
for  the  mad  passion  she  had  felt  when  her  eyes  were  dry 
frightened  her.  If  that  dreadful  feeling  were  to  come  on 
when  Lady  Cheverel  was  present,  she  should  never  be  able  to 
contain  herself. 

Then  there  was  Sir  Christopher — so  good  to  her — so  happy 
about  Anthony's  marriage;  and  all  the  while  she  had  these 
wicked  feelings. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  help  it,  I  cannot  help  it !  "  she  said  in  a 
loud  whisper  between  her  sobs.  "  O  God,  have  pity  upon 
me!" 

In  this  way  Tina  wore  out  the  long  hours  of  the  windy 
moonlight,  till  at  last,  with  weary  aching  limbs,  she  lay  down 
in  bed  again,  and  slept  from  mere  exhaustion. 

While  this  poor  little  heart  was  being  bruised  with  a  weight 


138  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

too  heavy  for  it,  Nature  was  holding  on  her  calm  inexorable 
way,  in  unmoved  and  terrible  beauty.  The  stars  were  rush- 
ing in  their  eternal  courses;  the  tides  swelled  to  the  level  of. 
the  last  expectant  weed ;  the  sun  was  making  brilliant  day  to 
busy  nations  on  the  other  side  of  the  swift  earth.  The  stream 
of  human  thought  and  deed  was  hurrying  and  broadening  on- 
ward. The  astronomer  was  at  his  telescope ;  the  great  ships 
were  laboring  over  the  waves ;  the  toiling  eagerness  of  com- 
merce, the  fierce  spirit  of  revolution,  were  only  ebbing  in 
brief  rest;  and  sleepless  statesmen  were  dreading  the  possible 
crisis  of  the  morrow.  What  were  our  little  Tina  and  her 
trouble  in  this  mighty  torrent,  rushing  from  one  awful  un- 
known to  another?  Lighter  than  the  smallest  centre  of  quiv- 
ering life  in  the  water-drop,  hidden  and  uncared  for  as  the 
pulse  of  anguish  in  the  breast  of  the  tiniest  bird  that  has  flut- 
tered down  to  its  nest  with  the  long-sought  food,  and  has 
found  the  nest  torn  and  empty. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  next  morning,  when  Caterina  was  waked  from  her 
heavy  sleep  by  Martha  bringing  in  the  warm  water,  the  sun 
was  shining,  the  wind  had  abated,  and  those  hours  of  suffer- 
ing in  the  night  seemed  unreal  and  dreamlike,  in  spite  of 
weary  limbs  and  aching  eyes.  She  got  up  and  began  to  dress 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  insensibility,  as  if  nothing  could 
make  her  cry  again ;  aud  she  even  felt  a  sort  of  longing  to  be 
downstairs  in  the  midst  of  company,  that  she  might  get  rid 
of  this  benumbed  condition  by  contact. 

There  are  few  of  us  that  are  not  rather  ashamed  of  our  sins 
and  follies  as  we  look  out  on  the  blessed  morning  sunlight, 
which  comes  to  us  like  a  bright-winged  angel  beckoning  us  to 
quit  the  old  path  of  vanity  that  stretches  its  dreary  length  be- 
hind us;  and  Tina,  little  as  she  knew  about  doctrines  and 
theories,  seemed  to  herself  to  have  been  both  foolish  and 
wicked  yesterday.  To-day  she  would  try  to  be  good;  and 
when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her  short  prayer — the  very  form 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  139 

she  had  learned  by  heart  when  she  was  ten  years  old — she 
added,  "O  God,  help  me  to  bear  it!  " 

That  day  the  prayer  seemed  to  be  answered,  for  after  some 
remarks  on  her  pale  looks  at  breakfast,  Caterina  passed  the 
morning  quietly,  Miss  Assher  and  Captain  Wybrow  being  out 
on  a  riding  excursion.  In  the  evening  there  was  a  dinner- 
party, and  after  Caterina  had  sung  a  little,  Lady  Cheverel, 
remembering  that  she  was  ailing,  sent  her  to  bed,  where  she 
soon  sank  into  a  deep  sleep.  Body  and  mind  must  renew  their 
force  to  suffer  as  well  as  to  enjoy. 

On  the  morrow,  however,  it  was  rainy,  and  every  one  must 
stay  indoors;  so  it  was  resolved  that  the  guests  should  be 
taken  over  the  house  by  Sir  Christopher,  to  hear  the  story  of 
the  architectural  alterations,  the  family  portraits,  and  the  fam- 
ily relics.  All  the  party,  except  Mr.  Gilfil,  were  in  the  draw- 
ing-room when  the  proposition  was  made;  and  when  Miss  As- 
sher rose  to  go,  she  looked  toward  Captain  Wybrow,  expecting 
to  see  him  rise  too ;  but  he  kept  his  seat  near  the  fire,  turning 
his  eyes  toward  the  newspaper  which  he  had  been  holding  un- 
read in  his  hand. 

"Are  you  not  coming,  Anthony?"  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
noticing  Miss  Assher's  look  of  expectation. 

"  I  think  not,  if  you'll  excuse  me,"  he  answered,  rising  and 
opening  the  door ;  "  I  feel  a  little  chilled  this  morning,  and  1 
am  afraid  of  the  cold  rooms  and  draughts." 

Miss  Assher  reddened,  but  said  nothing,  and  passed  on, 
Lady  Cheverel  accompanying  her. 

Caterina  was  seated  at  work  in  the  oriel  window.     It  was 
the  first  time  she  and  Anthony  had  been  alone  together,  and 
she  had  thought  before  that  he  wished  to  avoid  her.     But 
now,  surely,  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her — he  wanted  to  say 
something  kind.     Presently  he  rose  from  his  seat  near  the 
fire,  and  placed  himself  on  the  ottoman  opposite  to  her. 
"  Well,  Tina,  and  how  have  you  been  all  this  long  time?  " 
Both  the  tone  and  the  words  were  an  offence  to  her;  the 
tone  was  so  different  from  the  old  one,  the  words  were  so  cold 
and  unmeaning.     She  answered,  with  a  little  bitterness — 

"  I  think  you  needn't  ask.  It  doesn't  make  much  differ- 
ence to  you. " 


140  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Is  that  the  kindest  thing  you  have  to  say  to  me  after  my 
long  absence?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  expect  me  to  say  kind 
things." 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  wished  very  much  to 
avoid  allusions  to  the  past  or  comments  on  the  present.  And 
yet  he  wished  to  be  well  with  Caterina.  He  would  have  liked 
to  caress  her,  make  her  presents,  and  have  her  think  him 
very  kind  to  her.  But  these  women  are  plaguy  perverse! 
There's  no  bringing  them  to  look  rationally  at  anything.  At 
last  he  said,  "  I  hoped  you  would  think  all  the  better  of  me, 
Tina,  for  doing  as  I  have  done,  instead  of  bearing  malice  tow- 
ard me.  I  hoped  you  would  see  that  it  is  the  best  thing  for 
every  one — the  best  for  your  happiness  too." 

"  Oh  pray  don't  make  love  to  Miss  Assher  for  the  sake  of 
my  happiness,"  answered  Tina. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Assher  entered, 
to  fetch  her  reticule,  which  lay  on  the  harpsichord.  She  gave 
a  keen  glance  at  Caterina,  whose  face  was  flushed,  and  saying 
to  Captain  Wybrow  with  a  slight  sneer,  "  Since  you  are  so 
chill  I  wonder  you  like  to  sit  in  the  window,"  left  the  room 
again  immediately. 

The  lover  did  not  appear  much  discomposed,  but  sat  quiet  a 
little  longer,  and  then,  seating  himself  on  the  music-stool, 
drew  it  near  to  Caterina,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said,  "  Come, 
Tina,  look  kindly  at  me,  and  let  us  be  friends.  I  shall  always 
be  your  friend. " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Caterina,  drawing  away  her  hand. 
"  You  are  very  generous.  But  pray  move  away.  Miss  As- 
sher may  come  in  again." 

" Miss  Assher  be  hanged!"  said  Anthony,  feeling  the  fas- 
cination of  old  habit  returning  on  him  in  his  proximity  to 
Caterina.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  leaned  his 
cheek  down  to  hers.  The  lips  couldn't  help  meeting  after 
that ;  but  the  next  moment,  with  heart  swelling  and  tears  ris- 
ing, Caterina  burst  away  from  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
room. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  141 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CATERINA  tore  herself  from  Anthony  with  the  desperate 
effort  of  one  who  has  just  self -recollection  enough  left  to  be 
conscious  that  the  fumes  of  charcoal  will  master  his  senses 
unless  he  bursts  a  way  for  himself  to  the  fresh  air;  but  when 
she  reached  her  own  room,  she  was  still  too  intoxicated  with 
that  momentary  revival  of  old  emotions,  too  much  agitated  by 
the  sudden  return  of  tenderness  in  her  lover,  to  know  whether 
pain  or  pleasure  predominated.  It  was  as  ii  a  miracle  had 
happened  in  her  little  world  of  feeling,  and  made  the  future 
all  vague — a  dim  morning  haze  of  possibilities,  instead  of  the 
sombre  wintry  daylight  and  clear  rigid  outline  of  painful  cer- 
tainty. 

She  felt  the  need  of  rapid  movement.  She  must  walk  out 
in  spite  of  the  rain.  Happily,  there  was  a  thin  place  in  the 
curtain  of  clouds  which  seemed  to  promise  that  now,  about 
noon,  the  day  had  a  mind  to  clear  up.  Caterina  thought  to 
herself,  "  I  will  walk  to  the  Mosslands,  and  carry  Mr.  Bates 
the  comforter  I  have  made  for  him,  and  then  Lady  Cheverel 
will  not  wonder  so  much  at  my  going  out. "  At  the  hall  door 
she  found  Rupert,  the  old  bloodhound,  stationed  on  the  mat, 
with  the  determination  that  the  first  person  who  was  sensible 
enough  to  take  a  walk  that  morning  should  have  the  honor 
of  his  approbation  and  society.  As  he  thrust  his  great  black 
and  tawny  head  under  her  hand,  and  wagged  his  tail  with 
vigorous  eloquence,  and  reached  the  climax  of  his  welcome  by 
jumping  up  to  lick  her  face,  which  was  at  a  convenient  lick- 
ing height  for  him,  Caterina  felt  quite  grateful  to  the  old  dog 
for  his  friendliness.  Animals  are  such  agreeable  friends — 
they  ask  no  questions,  they  pass  no  criticisms. 

The  "  Mosslands  "  was  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds,  encir- 
cled by  the  little  stream  issuing  from  the  pool ;  and  certainly, 
for  a  wet  day,  Caterina  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  less  suit- 
able walk,  for  though  the  rain  was  abating,  and  presently 
ceased  altogether,  there  was  still  a  smart  shower  falling  from 
the  trees  which  arched  over  the  greater  part  of  her  way.  But 


142  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

she  found  just  the  desired  relief  from  her  feverish  excitement 
in  laboring  along  the  wet  paths  with  an  umbrella  that  made 
her  arm  ache.  This  amount  of  exertion  was  to  her  tiny  body 
what  a  day's  hunting  often  was  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  at  times 
had  his  fits  of  jealousy  and  sadness  to  get  rid  of,  and  wisely 
had  recourse  to  nature's  innocent  opium — fatigue. 

When  Caterina  reached  the  pretty  arched  wooden  bridge 
which  formed  the  only  entrance  to  the  Mosslands  for  any  but 
webbed  feet,  the  sun  had  mastered  the  clouds,  and  was  shin- 
ing through  the  boughs  of  the  tall  elms  that  made  a  deep  nest 
for  the  gardener's  cottage— turning  the  rain-drops  into  dia- 
monds, and  inviting  the  nasturtium  flowers  creeping  over  the 
porch  and  low-thatched  roof  to  lift  up  their  flame-colored 
heads  once  more.  The  rooks  were  cawing  Avith  many -voiced 
monotony,  apparently — by  a  remarkable  approximation  to 
human  intelligence— finding  great  conversational  resources  in 
the  change  of  weather.  The  mossy  turf,  studded  with  the 
broad  blades  of  marsh-loving  plants,  told  that  Mr.  Bates's 
nest  was  rather  damp  in  the  best  of  weather ;  but  he  was  of 
opinion  that  a  little  external  moisture  would  hurt  no  man  who 
was  not  perversely  neglectful  of  that  obvious  and  providential 
antidote,  runi-and-water. 

Caterina  loved  this  nest.  Every  object  in  it,  every  sound 
that  haunted  it,  had  been  familiar  to  her  from  the  days  when 
she  had  been  carried  thither  on  Mr.  Bates's  arm,  making  little 
cawing  noises  to  imitate  the  rooks,  clapping  her  hands  at  the 
green  frogs  leaping  in  the  moist  grass,  and  fixing  grave  eyes 
on  the  gardener's  fowls  cluck-clucking  under  their  pens.  And 
now  the  spot  looked  prettier  to  her  than  ever ;  it  was  so  out 
of  the  way  of  Miss  Assher,  with  her  brilliant  beauty,  and 
personal  claims,  and  small  civil  remarks.  She  thought  Mr. 
Bates  would  not  be  come  into  his  dinner  yet,  so  she  would  sit 
down  and  wait  for  him. 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Mr.  Bates  was  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, with  his  pocket-handkerchief  thrown  over  his  face  as 
the  most  eligible  mode  of  passing  away  those  superfluous 
hours  between  meals  when  the  weather  drives  a  man  indoors. 
Housed  by  the  furious  barking  of  his  chained  bull-dog,  he  de- 
scried his  little  favorite  approaching,  and  forthwith  presented 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  143 

himself  at  the  doorway,  looking  disproportionately  tall  com- 
pared with  the  height  of  his  cottage.  The  bull-dog,  mean- 
while, unbent  from  the  severity  of  his  official  demeanor,  and 
commenced  a  friendly  interchange  of  ideas  with  Rupert. 

Mr.  Bates' s  hair  was  now  gray,  but  his  frame  was  none  the 
less  stalwart,  and  his  face  looked  all  the  redder,  making  an 
artistic  contrast  with  the  deep  blue  of  his  cotton  neckerchief, 
and  of  his  linen  apron  twisted  into  a  girdle  round  his  waist. 

"Why,  dang  my  boottons,  Miss  Tiny,"  he  exclaimed,  "hoo 
coorn  ye  to  coom  oot  dabblin'  your  faet  laike  a  little  Muscovy 
duck,  sich  a  day  as  this?  Not  but  what  ai'm  delaighted  to  sae 
ye.  Here  Hesther, "  he  called  to  his  old  humpbacked  house- 
keeper, "tek  the  young  ledy's  oombrella  an'  spread  it  oot  to 
dray.  Coom,  coom  in,  Miss  Tiny,  an'  set  ye  doon  by  the 
faire  an'  dray  yer  faet,  an'  hev  summat  warm  to  kape  ye  from 
ketchin'  coold." 

Mr.  Bates  led  the  way,  stooping  under  the  door-places,  into 
his  small  sitting-room,  and,  shaking  the  patchwork  cushion  in 
his  arm-chair,  moved  it  to  within  a  good  roasting  distance  of 
the  blazing  fire. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle  Bates  "  (Caterina  kept  up  her  childish 
epithets  for  her  friends,  and  this  was  one  of  them) ;  "  not  quite 
so  close  to  the  fire,  for  I  am  warm  with  walking." 

"  Eh,  but  yer  shoes  are  faine  an'  wet,  an'  ye  must  put  up 
yer  faet  on  the  fender.  Rare  big  faet,  baint  'em? — aboot  the 
saize  of  a  good  big  spoon.  I  woonder  ye  can  mek  a  shift  to 
stan'  on  'em.  Now,  what'll  ye  hev  to  warm  yer  insaide? — 
a  drop  o?  hot  elder  wain,  now?  " 

"No,  not  anything  to  drink,  thank  you;  it  isn't  very  long 
since  breakfast)"  said  Caterina,  drawing  out  the  comforter 
from  her  deep  pocket.  Pockets  were  capacious  in  those  days. 
"  Look  here,  uncle  Bates,  here  is  what  I  came  to  bring  you. 
I  made  it  on  purpose  for  you.  You  must  wear  it  this  winter, 
and  give  your  red  one  to  old  Brooks. " 

"  Eh,  Miss  Tiny,  this  is  a  beauty.  An'  ye  made  it  all  wi' 
yer  little  fingers  for  an  old  feller  laike  mae!  I  tek  it  very 
kaind  on  ye,  an'  I  belave  ye  I'll  wear  it,  and  be  proud  on't 
too.  These  sthraipes,  blue  an'  whaite,  now,  they  mek  it  un- 
common pritty." 


144  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Yes,  that  will  suit  your  complexion,  you  know,  better  than 
the  old  scarlet  one.  I  know  Mrs.  Sharp  will  be  more  in  love 
with  you  than  ever  when  she  sees  you  in  the  new  one." 

"My  complexion,  ye  little  roogue!  ye're  a  laughin'  at  me. 
But  talkin'  o'  complexions,  what  a  beautiful  color  the  bride  as 
is  to  be  has  on  her  cheeks!  Dang  my  boottons!  she  looks 
faine  and  handsome  o'  hossback — sits  as  upraight  as  a  dart, 
wi'  a  figure  like  a  statty !  Misthress  Sharp  has  promised  to 
put  me  behaind  one  o'  the  doors  when  the  ladies  are  comin' 
doon  to  dinner,  so  as  I  may  sae  the  young  un  i'  full  dress,  wi' 
all  her  curls  an'  that.  Misthress  Sharp  says  she's  almost 
beautifuller  nor  my  ledy  was  when  she  was  yoong;  an'  I 
think  ye'll  noot  faind  many  i'  the  counthry  as'll  coom  up  to 
that." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Assher  is  very  handsome,"  said  Caterina,  rather 
faintly,  feeling  the  sense  of  her  own  insignificance  returning 
at  this  picture  of  the  impression  Miss  Assher  made  on  others. 

"Well,  an'  I  hope  she's  good  too,  an'll  mek  a  good  naice 
to  Sir  Cristhifer  an'  my  ledy.  Misthress  Griffin,  the  maid, 
says  as  she's  rether  tatchy  and  find-fautin'  about  her  cloothes, 
laike.  But  she's  yoong — she's  yoong;  that'll  wear  off  when 
she's  got  a  hoosband,  an'  children,  an'  summat  else  to  think 
on.  Sir  Cristhifer's  fain  an'  delaighted,  I  can  see.  He 
says  to  me  th'  other  mornin,  says  he,  '  "Well,  Bates,  what 
do  you  think  of  your  young  misthress  as  is  to  be?'  An'  I 
says,  '  Whay,  yer  honor,  I  think  she's  as  fain  a  lass  as  iver  I 
set  eyes  on ;  an'  I  wish  the  Captain  luck  in  a  fain  family,  an' 
your  honor  laife  an'  health  to  see't.  Mr.  Warren  says  as  the 
masther's  all  for  forrardin'  the  weddin, '  an'  it'll  very  laike 
be  afore  the  autumn's  oot." 

As  Mr.  Bates  ran  on,  Caterina  felt  something  like  a  painful 
contraction  at  her  heart.  "Yes,"  she  said,  rising,  "I  dare 
say  it  will.  Sir  Christopher  is  very  anxious  for  it.  But  I 
must  go,  uncle  Bates;  Lady  Cheverel  will  be  wanting  me,  and 
it  is  your  dinner-time. " 

"Nay,  my  dinner  doon't  sinnify  a  bit;  but  I  moosn't  kaep 
ye  if  my  ledy  wants  ye.  Though  I  hevn't  thanked  ye  half 
an  oof  for  the  comfiter — the  wrapraskil,  as  they  call't.  My 
feckins,  it"s  a  beauty.  But  ye  look  very  whaite  and  sadly, 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  145 

Miss  Tiny;  I  doubt  ye're  poorly;  an'  this  walking  i'  th'  wet 
isn't  good  for  ye." 

"Oh  yes,  it  is  indeed,"  said  Caterina,  hastening  out,  and 
taking  up  her  umbrella  from  the  kitchen  floor.  "  I  must 
really  go  now;  so  good-by." 

She  tripped  off,  calling  Rupert,  while  the  good  gardener, 
his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  stood  looking  after  her 
and  shaking  his  head  with  rather  a  melancholy  air. 

"  She  gets  moor  nesh  and  dillicat  than  iver, "  he  said,  half 
to  himself  and  half  to  Hester.  "  I  shouldn't  woonder  if  she 
fades  away  laike  them  cyclamens  as  I  transplanted.  She  puts 
me  i'  maind  on  'em  somehow,  hangin'  on  their  little  thin  stalks, 
so  whaite  an'  tinder." 

The  poor  little  thing  made  her  way  back,  no  longer  hunger- 
ing for  the  cold  moist  air  as  a  counteractive  of  inward  excite- 
ment, but  with  a  chill  at  her  heart  which  made  the  outward 
chill  only  depressing.  The  golden  sunlight  beamed  through 
the  dripping  boughs  like  a  Shechinah,  or  visible  divine  pres- 
ence, and  the  birds  were  chirping  and  trilling  their  new  au- 
tumnal songs  so  sweetly,  it  seemed  as  if  their  throats,  as  well 
as  the  air,  were  all  the  clearer  for  the  rain;  but  Caterina 
moved  through  all  this  joy  and  beauty  like  a  poor  wounded 
leveret  painfully  dragging  its  little  body  through  the  sweet 
clover-tufts — for  it,  sweet  in  vain.  Mr.  Bates's  words  about 
Sir  Christopher's  joy,  Miss  Assher's  beauty,  and  the  nearness 
of  the  wedding,  had  come  upon  her  like  the  pressure  of  a  cold 
hand,  rousing  her  from  confused  dozing  to  a  perception  of  hard, 
familiar  realities.  It  is  so  with  emotional  natures,  whose 
thoughts  are  no  more  than  the  fleeting  shadows  cast  by  feel- 
ing :  to  them  words  are  facts,  and  even  when  known  to  be 
false,  have  a  mastery  over  their  smiles  and  tears.  Caterina 
entered  her  own  room  again,  with  no  other  change  from  her 
former  state  of  despondency  and  wretchedness  than  an  addi- 
tional sense  of  injury  from  Anthony.  His  behavior  toward 
her  in  the  morning  was  a  new  wrong.  To  snatch  a  caress 
when  she  justly  claimed  an  expression  of  penitence,  of  regret, 
of  sympathy,  was  to  make  more  light  of  her  than  ever. 


146  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THAT  evening  Miss  Assher  seemed  to  carry  herself  with 
unusual  haughtiness,  and  was  coldly  observant  of  Caterina. 
There  was  unmistakably  thunder  in  the  air.  Captain  \Vy- 
brow  appeared  to  take  the  matter  very  easily,  and  was  in- 
clined to  brave  it  out  by  paying  more  than  ordinary  attention 
to  Caterina.  Mr.  Gilfil  had  induced  her  to  play  a  game  at 
draughts  with  him,  Lady  Assher  being  seated  at  picquet  with 
Sir  Christopher,  and  Miss  Assher  in  determined  conversation 
with  Lady  Cheverel.  Anthony,  thus  left  as  an  odd  unit, 
sauntered  up  to  Caterina' s  chair  and  leaned  behind  her, 
watching  the  game.  Tina,  with  all  the  remembrances  of  the 
morning  thick  upon  her,  felt  her  cheeks  becoming  more  and 
more  crimson,  and  at  last  said  impatiently,  "I  wish  you 
would  go  away." 

This  happened  directly  under  the  view  of  Miss  Assher,  who 
saw  Caterina' s  reddening  cheeks,  saw  that  she  said  something 
impatiently,  and  that  Captain  Wybrow  moved  away  in  conse- 
quence. There  was  another  person,  too,  who  had  noticed  this 
incident  with  strong  interest,  and  who  was  moreover  aware 
that  Miss  Assher  not  only  saw,  but  keenly  observed  what  was 
passing.  That  other  person  was  Mr.  Gilfil,  and  he  drew  some 
painful  conclusions  which  heightened  his  anxiety  for  Caterina. 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  the  fine  weather,  Miss  Assher 
declined  riding,  and  Lady  Cheverel,  perceiving  that  there  was 
something  wrong  between  the  lovers,  took  care  that  they  should 
be  left  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Assher,  seated  on 
the  sofa  near  the  fire,  was  busy  with  some  fancy-work,  in 
which  she  seemed  bent  on  making  great  progress  this  morn- 
ing. Captain  Wybrow  sat  opposite  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  from  which  he  obligingly  read  extracts  with  an  elaborate- 
ly easy  air,  wilfully  unconscious  of  the  contemptuous  silence 
with  which  she  pursued  her  filigree  work.  At  length  he  put 
down  the  paper,  which  he  could  no  longer  pretend  not  to  have 
exhausted,  and  Miss  Assher  then  said — 

"  You  seem  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms  with  Miss  Sarti. " 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  147 

"With  Tina?  oh  yes;  she  has  always  been  the  pet  of  the 
house,  you  know.  We  have  been  quite  brother  and  sister 
together. " 

"  Sisters  don't  generally  color  so  very  deeply  when  their 
brothers  approach  them." 

"Does  she  color?  I  never  noticed  it.  But  she's  a  timid 
little  thing." 

"  It  would  be  much  better  if  you  would  not  be  so  hypocriti- 
cal, Captain  Wybrow.  I  am  confident  there  has  been  some 
flirtation  between  you.  Miss  Sarti,  in  her  position,  would 
never  speak  to  you  with  the  petulance  she  did  last  night,  if 
you  had  not  given  her  some  kind  of  claim  on  you." 

11  My  dear  Beatrice,  now  do  be  reasonable ;  do  ask  yourself 
what  earthly  probability  there  is  that  I  should  think  of  flirt- 
ing with  poor  little  Tina.  Is  there  anything  about  her  to  at- 
tract that  sort  of  attention?  She  is  more  child  than  woman. 
One  thinks  of  her  as  a  little  girl  to  be  petted  and  played 
with." 

"  Pray,  what  were  you  playing  at  with  her  yesterday  morn- 
ing, when  I  came  in  unexpectedly,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  her  hands  trembling?  " 

"  Yesterday  morning? — Oh,  I  remember.  You  know  I  al- 
ways tease  her  about  Gilfil,  who  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  her;  and  she  is  angry  at  that, — perhaps,  because  she 
likes  him.  They  were  old  playfellows  years  before  I  came 
here,  and  Sir  Christopher  has  set  his  heart  on  their  mar- 
rying." 

"  Captain  Wybrow,  you  are  very  false.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Mr.  Gilfil  that  she  colored  last  night  when  you  leaned 
over  her  chair.  You  might  just  as  well  be  candid.  If  your 
own  mind  is  not  made  up,  pray  do  no  violence  to  yourself. 
I  am  quite  ready  to  give  way  to  Miss  Sarti' s  superior  attrac- 
tions. Understand  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  are 
perfectly  at  liberty.  I  decline  any  share  in  the  affection  of  a 
man  who  forfeits  my  respect  by  duplicity. " 

In  saying  this  Miss  Assher  rose,  and  was  sweeping  haugh- 
tily out  of  the  room,  when  Captain  Wybrow  placed  himself 
before  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Dear,  dear  Beatrice,  be  patient;  do  not  judge  me  so  rashly. 


148  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Sit  down  again,  sweet,"  he  added  in  a  pleading  voice,  press- 
ing both  her  hands  between  his,  and  leading  her  back  to  the 
sofa,  where  he  sat  down  beside  her.  Miss  Assher  was  not 
unwilling  to  be  led  back  or  to  listen,  but  she  retained  her  cold 
and  haughty  expression. 

"Can  you  not  trust  me,  Beatrice?  Can  you  not  believe 
me,  although  there  may  be  things  I  am  unable  to  explain?" 

"Why  should  there  be  anything  you  are  unable  to  explain? 
An  honorable  man  will  not  be  placed  in  circumstances  which 
he  cannot  explain  to  the  woman  he  seeks  to  make  his  wife. 
He  will  not  ask  her  to  believe  that  he  acts  properly;  he  will 
let  her  know  that  he  does  so.  Let  me  go,  sir." 

She  attempted  to  rise,  but  he  passed  his  hand  round  her 
waist  and  detained  her. 

"Now,  Beatrice,  dear,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "can  you  not 
understand  that  there  are  things  a  man  doesn't  like  to  talk 
about — secrets  that  he  must  keep  for  the  sake  of  others,  and 
not  for  his  own  sake?  Everything  that  relates  to  myself  you 
may  ask  me,  but  do  not  ask  me  to  tell  other  people's  secrets. 
Don't  you  understand  me?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Assher,  scornfully,  "I  understand. 
Whenever  you  make  love  to  a  woman — that  is  her  secret, 
which  you  are  bound  to  keep  for  her.  But  it  is  folly  to  be 
talking  in  this  way,  Captain  Wybrow.  It  is  very  plain  that 
there  is  some  relation  more  than  friendship  between  you  and 
Miss  Sarti.  Since  you  cannot  explain  that  relation,  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said  between  us." 

"Confound  it,  Beatrice!  you'll  drive  me  mad.  Can  a  fel- 
low help  a  girl's  falling  in  love  with  him?  Such  things  are 
always  happening,  but  men  don't  talk  of  them.  These  fancies 
will  spring  up  without  the  slightest  foundation,  especially 
when  a  woman  sees  few  people ;  they  die  out  again  when  there 
in  no  encouragement.  If  you  could  like  me,  you  ought  not  to 
be  surprised  that  other  people  can;  you  ought  to  think  the 
better  of  them  for  it." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  Miss  Sarti  is  in  love  with 
you,  without  your  ever  having  made  love  to  her." 

"  Do  not  press  me  to  say  such  things,  dearest.  It  is  enough 
that  you  know  I  love  you — that  I  am  devoted  to  you.  You 


MR.   QILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  149 

naughty  queen,  you,  you  know  there  is  no  chance  for  any  one 
else  where  you  are.  You  are  only  tormenting  me,  to  prove 
your  power  over  me.  But  don't  be  too  cruel ;  for  you  know 
they  say  I  have  another  heart  disease  besides  love,  and  these 
scenes  bring  on  terrible  palpitations." 

"But  I  must  have  an  answer  to  this  one  question,"  said 
Miss  Assher,  a  little  softened :  "  has  there  been,  or  is  there, 
any  love  on  your  side  toward  Miss  Sarti?  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  her  feelings,  but  I  have  a  right  to  know  yours." 

"  I  like  Tina  very  much ;  who  would  not  like  such  a  little 
simple  thing?  You  would  not  wish  me  not  to  like  her?  But 
love — that  is  a  very  different  affair.  One  has  a  brotherly 
affection  for  such  a  woman  as  Tina;  but  it  is  another  sort  of 
woman  that  one  loves." 

These  last  words  were  made  doubly  significant  by  a  look  of 
tenderness,  and  a  kiss  imprinted  on  the  hand  Captain  Wybrow 
held  in  his.  Miss  Assher  was  conquered.  It  was  so  far  from 
probable  that  Anthony  should  love  that  pale  insignificant 
little  thing — so  highly  probable  that  he  should  adore  the  beau- 
tiul  Miss  Assher.  On  the  whole,  it  was  rather  gratifying  that 
other  women  should  be  languishing  for  her  handsome  lover; 
he  really  was  an  exquisite  creature.  Poor  Miss  Sarti !  Well, 
she  would  get  over  it. 

Captain  Wybrow  saw  his  advantage.  "Come,  sweet  love," 
he  continued,  "  let  us  talk  no  more  about  unpleasant  things. 
You  will  keep  Tina's  secret,  and  be  very  kind  to  her — won't 
you? — for  niy  sake.  But  you  will  ride  out  now?  See  what 
a  glorious  day  it  is  for  riding.  Let  me  order  the  horses.  I'm 
terribly  in  want  of  the  air.  Come,  give  me  one  forgiving  kiss, 
and  say  you  will  go." 

Miss  Assher  complied  with  the  double  request,  and  then 
went  to  equip  herself  for  the  ride,  while  her  lover  walked  to 
the  stables. 


150  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MEANWHILE  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  a  heavy  weight  on  his 
mind,  had  watched  for  the  moment  when,  the  two  elder 
ladies  having  driven  out,  Caterina  would  probably  be  alone 
in  Lady  Cheverel's  sitting-room.  He  went  up  and  knocked 
at  the  door. 

•'Come  in,"  said  the  sweet  mellow  voice,  always  thrilling  to 
him  as  the  sound  of  rippling  water  to  the  thirsty. 

He  entered  and  found  Caterina  standing  in  some  confusion, 
as  if  she  had  been  startled  from  a  revery.  She  felt  relieved 
when  she  saw  it  was  Maynard,  but,  the  next  moment,  felt  a 
little  pettish  that  he  should  have  come  to  interrupt  and 
frighten  her. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Maynard!     Do  you  want  Lady  Cheverel?" 

"No,  Caterina,"  he  answered  gravely;  "I  want  you.  I 
have  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you.  Will  you  let 
me  sit  down  with  you  for  half  an  hour?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  old  preacher, "  said  Caterina,  sitting  down  with 
an  air  of  weariness;  "what  is  it? " 

"  Mr.  Gilfil  placed  himself  opposite  to  her,  and  said,  "  I 
hope  you  will  not  be  hurt,  Caterina,  by  what  I  am  going  to 
say  to  you.  I  do  not  speak  from  any  other  feelings  than  real 
affection  and  anxiety  for  you.  I  put  everything  else  out  of 
the  question.  You  know  you  are  more  to  me  than  all  the 
world;  but  I  will  not  thrust  before  you  a  feeling  which  you 
are  unable  to  return.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  brother — the  old 
Maynard  that  used  to  scold  you  for  getting  your  fishing-line 
tangled  ten  years  ago.  You  will  not  believe  that  I  have  any 
mean,  selfish  motive  in  mentioning  things  that  are  painful  to 
you?  " 

"  No ;  I  know  you  are  very  good, "  said  Caterina,  abstract- 
edly. 

"From  what  I  saw  yesterday  evening,"  Mr.  Gilfil  went  on, 
hesitating  and  coloring  slightly,  "  I  am  led  to  fear — pray  for- 
give me  if  I  am  wrong,  Caterina — that  you — that  Captain 
Wybrow  is  base  enough  still  to  trifle  with  your  feelings,  that 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  151 

he  still  allows  himself  to  behave  to  you  as  no  man  ought  who 
is  the  declared  lover  of  another  woman." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Maynard?"  said  Caterina,  with  anger 
flashing  from  her  eyes.  "  Do  you  mean  that  I  let  him  make 
love  to  me  ?  What  right  have  you  to  think  that  of  me? 
What  do  you  mean  that  you  saw  yesterday  evening?  " 

"  Do  not  be  angry,  Caterina.  I  don't  suspect  you  of  doing 
wrong.  I  only  suspect  that  heartless  puppy  of  behaving  so 
as  to  keep  awake  feelings  in  you  that  not  only  destroy  your 
own  peace  of  mind,  but  may  lead  to  very  bad  consequences 
with  regard  to  others.  I  want  to  warn  you  that  Miss  Assher 
has  her  eyes  open  on  what  passes  between  you  and  Captain 
Wybrow,  and  I  feel  sure  she  is  getting  jealous  of  you.  Pray 
be  very  careful,  Caterina,  and  try  to  behave  with  politeness 
and  indifference  to  him.  You  must  see  by  this  time  that  he 
is  not  worth  the  feeling  you  have  given  him.  He's  more  dis- 
turbed at  his  pulse  beating  one  too  many  in  a  minute,  than  at 
all  the  misery  he  has  caused  you  by  his  foolish  trifling." 

"  You  ought  not  to  speak  so  of  him,  Maynard, "  said  Cat- 
erina, passionately.  "He  is  not  what  you  think.  He  did 
care  for  me ;  he  did  love  me ;  only  he  wanted  to  do  what  his 
uncle  wished." 

"  Oh  to  be  sure!  I  know  it  is  only  from  the  most  virtuous 
motives  that  he  does  what  is  convenient  to  himself." 

Mr.  Giltil  paused.  He  felt  that  he  was  getting  irritated, 
and  defeating  his  own  object.  Presently  he  continued  in  a 
calm  and  affectionate  tone. 

"  I  will  say  no  more  about  what  I  think  of  him,  Caterina. 
But  whether  he  loved  you  or  not,  his  position  now  with  Miss 
Assher  is  such  that  any  love  you  may  cherish  for  him  can 
bring  nothing  but  misery.  God  knows,  I  don't  expect  you 
to  leave  off  loving  him  at  a  moment's  notice.  Time  and  ab- 
sence, and  trying  to  do  what  is  right,  are  the  only  cures.  If 
it  were  not  that  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  would  be 
displeased  and  puzzled  at  your  wishing  to  leave  home  just 
now,  I  would  beg  you  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  sister.  She  and 
her  husband  are  good  creatures,  and  would  make  their  house 
a  home  to  you.  But  I  could  not  urge  the  thing  just  now 
without  giving  a  special  reason  j  and  what  is  most  of  all  to 


152  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

be  dreaded  is  the  raising  of  any  suspicion  in  Sir  Christopher's 
mind  of  what  has  happened  in  the  past,  or  of  your  present 
feelings.  You  think  so  too,  don't  you,  Tina?" 

Mr.  Gilfil  paused  again,  but  Caterina  said  nothing.  She 
was  looking  away  from  him,  out  of  the  window,  and  her  eyes 
were  filling  with  tears.  He  rose,  and,  advancing  a  little  tow- 
ard her,  held  out  his  hand  and  said — 

"Forgive  me,  Caterina,  for  intruding  on  your  feelings  in 
this  way.  I  was  so  afraid  you  might  not  be  aware  how  Miss 
Assher  watched  you.  Remember,  I  entreat  you,  that  the  peace 
of  the  whole  family  depends  on  your  power  of  governing  your- 
self. Only  say  you  forgive  me  before  I  go." 

"  Dear,  good  Maynard, "  she  said,  stretching  out  her  little 
hand,  and  taking  two  of  his  large  fingers  in  her  grasp,  while 
her  tears  flowed  fast;  "  I  am  very  cross  to  you.  But  my  heart 
is  breaking.  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Good-by." 

He  stooped  down,  kissed  the  little  hand,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

"The  cursed  scoundrel!"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him.  "If  it  were  not  for  Sir 
Christopher,  I  should  like  to  pound  him  into  paste  to  poison 
puppies  like  himself!  " 


CHAPTER   X. 

THAT  evening  Captain  Wybrow,  returning  from  a  long  ride 
with  Miss  Assher,  went  up  to  his  dressing-room,  and  seated 
himself  with  an  air  of  considerable  lassitude  before  his  mir- 
ror. The  reflection  there  presented  of  his  exquisite  self  was 
certainly  paler  and  more  worn  than  usual,  and  might  excuse 
the  anxiety  with  which  he  first  felt  his  pulse,  and  then  laid 
his  hand  on  his  heart. 

" It's  a  devil  of  a  position  this  for  a  man  to  be  in,"  was  the 
train  of  his  thought,  as  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glass, 
while  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  crossed  his  hands  behind 
his  head;  <;  between  two  jealous  women,  and  both  of  them  as 
ready  to  take  fire  as  tinder.  And  in  my  state  of  health,  too! 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  153 

I  should  be  glad  enough  to  run  away  from  the  whole  affair, 
and  go  off  to  some  lotos-eating  place  or  other  where  there  are 
no  women,  or  only  women  who  are  too  sleepy  to  be  jealous. 
Here  am  I,  doing  nothing  to  please  myself,  trying  to  do  the 
best  thing  for  everybody  else,  and  all  the  comfort  I  get  is  to 
have  fire  shot  at  me  from  women's  eyes  and  venom  spirted  at 
me  from  women's  tongues.  If  Beatrice  takes  another  jealous 
fit  into  her  head — and  it's  likely  enough,  Tina  is  so  unman- 
ageable— I  don't  know  what  storm  she  may  raise.  And  any 
hitch  in  this  marriage,  especially  of  that  sort,  might  be  a 
fatal  business  for  the  old  gentleman.  I  wouldn't  have  such 
a  blow  fall  upon  him  for  a  great  deal.  Besides,  a  man  must 
be  married  some  time  in  his  life,  and  I  could  hardly  do  better 
than  marry  Beatrice.  She's  an  uncommonly  fine  woman,  and 
I'm  really  very  fond  of  her;  and  as  I  shall  let  her  have  her 
own  way,  her  temper  won't  signify  much.  I  wish  the  wed- 
ding was  over  and  done  with,  for  this  fuss  doesn't  suit  me  at 
all.  I  haven't  been  half  so  well  lately.  That  scene  about 
Tina  this  morning  quite  upset  me.  Poor  little  Tina !  What 
a  little  simpleton  it  was,  to  set  her  heart  on  me  in  that  way ! 
But  she  ought  to  see  how  impossible  it  is  that  things  should 
be  different.  If  she  would  but  understand  how  kindly  I  feel 
toward  her,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  look  on  me  as  a  friend ; 
— but  that  is  what  one  never  can  get  a  woman  to  do.  Bea- 
trice is  very  good-natured;  I'm  sure  she  would  be  kind  to  the 
little  thing.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  if  Tina  would  take 
to  Gilfil,  if  it  were  only  in  anger  against  me.  He'd  make 
her  a  capital  husband,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  little  grass- 
hopper happy.  If  I  had  been  in  a  different  position,  I  would 
certainly  have  married  her  myself;  but  that  was  out  of  the 
question  with  my  responsibilities  to  Sir  Christopher.  I  think 
a  little  persuasion  from  my  uncle  would  bring  her  to  accept 
Gilfil ;  I  know  she  would  never  be  able  to  oppose  my  uncle's 
wishes.  And  if  they  were  once  married,  she's  such  a  loving 
little  thing,  she  would  soon  be  billing  and  cooing  with  him  as 
if  she  had  never  known  me.  It  would  certainly  be  the  best 
thing  for  her  happiness  if  that  marriage  were  hastened. 
Heigho!  Those  are  lucky  fellows  that  have  no  women  fall- 
ing in  love  with  them.  It's  a  confounded  responsibility." 


154  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

At  this  point  in  his  meditations  he  turned  his  head  a  little, 
so  as  to  get  a  three-quarter  view  of  his  face.  Clearly  it  was 
the  "  dono  infelice  delta  bellezza, "  that  laid  these  onerous  du- 
ties upon  him — an  idea  which  naturally  suggested  that  he 
should  ring  for  his  valet. 

For  the  next  few  days,  however,  there  was  such  a  cessation 
of  threatening  symptoms  as  to  allay  the  anxiety  both  of  Cap- 
tain Wybrow  and  Mr.  Gilfil.  All  earthly  things  have  their 
lull :  even  on  nights  when  the  most  unappeasable  wind  is  rag- 
ing, there  will  be  a  moment  of  stillness  before  it  crashes  among 
the  boughs  again,  and  storms  against  the  windows,  and  howls 
like  a  thousand  lost  demons  through  the  keyholes. 

Miss  Assher  appeared  to  be  in  the  highest  good-humor; 
Captain  Wybrow  was  more  assidous  than  usual,  and  was  very 
circumspect  in  his  behavior  to  Caterina,  on  whom  Miss  Assher 
bestowed  unwonted  attentions.  The  weather  was  brilliant; 
there  were  riding  excursions  in  the  mornings  and  dinner-par- 
ties in  the  evenings.  Consultations  in  the  library  between 
Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Assher  seemed  to  be  leading  to  a 
satisfactory  result;  and  it  was  understood  that  this  visit  at 
Cheverel  Manor  would  terminate  in  another  fortnight,  when 
the  preparations  for  the  wedding  would  be  carried  forward 
with  all  despatch  at  Farleigh.  The  Baronet  seemed  every 
day  more  radiant.  Accustomed  to  view  people  who  entered 
into  his  plans  by  the  pleasant  light  which  his  own  strong  will 
and  right  hopefulness  were  always  casting  on  the  future,  he 
saw  nothing  but  personal  charms  and  promising  domestic 
qualities  in  Miss  Assher,  whose  quickness  of  eye  and  taste  in 
externals  formed  a  real  ground  of  sympathy  between  her  and 
Sir  Christopher.  Lady  Cheverel' s  enthusiasm  never  rose 
above  the  temperate  mark  of  calm  satisfaction,  and,  having 
quite  her  share  of  the  critical  acumen  which  characterizes  the 
mutual  estimates  of  the  fair  sex,  she  had  a  more  moderate 
opinion  of  Miss  Assher 's  qualities.  She  suspected  that  the 
fair  Beatrice  had  a  sharp  and  imperious  temper;  and  being 
herself,  on  principle  and  by  habitual  self-command,  the  most 
deferential  of  wives,  she  noticed  with  disapproval  Miss  As- 
sher's  occasional  air  of  authority  toward  Captain  Wybrow.  A 
proud  woman  who  has  learned  to  submit,  carries  all  her  pride 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  155 

to  the  re-enforcement  of  her  submisson,  and  looks  down  with 
severe  superiority  on  all  feminine  assumption  as  "  unbecom- 
ing." Lady  Cheverel,  however,  confined  her  criticisms  to  the 
privacy  of  her  own  thoughts,  and,  with  a  reticence  which  I 
fear  may  seem  incredible,  did  not  use  them  as  a  means  of  dis- 
turbing her  husband's  complacency. 

And  Caterina?  How  did  she  pass  these  sunny  autumn 
days,  in  which  the  skies  seemed  to  be  smiling  on  the  family 
gladness?  To  her  the  change  in  Miss  Assher's  manner  was 
unaccountable.  Those  compassionate  attentions,  those  smil- 
ing condescensions,  were  torture  to  Caterina,  who  was  con- 
stantly tempted  to  repulse  them  with  anger.  She  thought, 
"  Perhaps  Anthony  has  told  her  to  be  kind  to  poor  Tina." 
This  was  an  insult.  He  ought  to  have  known  that  the  mere 
presence  of  Miss  Assher  was  painful  to  her,  that  Miss  As- 
sher's smiles  scorched  her,  that  Miss  Assher's  kind  words  were 
like  poison  stings  inflaming  her  to  madness.  And  he — An- 
thony— he  was  evidently  repenting  of  the  tenderness  he  had 
been  betrayed  into  that  morning  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
was  cold  and  distant  and  civil  to  her,  to  ward  off  Beatrice's 
suspicions,  and  Beatrice  could  be  so  gracious  now,  because  she 
was  sure  of  Anthony's  entire  devotion.  Well!  and  so  it 
ought  to  be — and  she  ought  not  to  wish  it  otherwise.  And 
yet — oh,  he  was  cruel  to  her.  She  could  never  have  behaved 
so  to  him.  To  make  her  love  him  so — to  speak  such  tender 
words — to  give  her  such  caresses,  and  then  to  behave  as  if 
such  things  had  never  been.  He  had  given  her  the  poison 
that  seemed  so  sweet  while  she  was  drinking  it,  and  now  it 
was  in  her  blood,  and  she  was  helpless. 

With  this  tempest  pent  up  in  her  bosom,  the  poor  child 
went  up  to  her  room  every  night,  and  there  it  all  burst  forth. 
There,  with  loud  whispers  and  sobs,  restlessly  pacing  up  and 
down,  lying  on  the  hard  floor,  courting  cold  and  weariness, 
she  told  to  the  pitiful  listening  night  the  anguish  which  she 
could  pour  into  no  mortal  ear.  But  always  sleep  came  at 
last,  and  always  in  the  morning  the  reactive  calm  that  enabled 
her  to  live  through  the  day. 

It  is  amazing  how  long  a  young  frame  will  go  on  battling 
with  this  sort  of  secret  wretchedness,  and  yet  show  no  traces 


156  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

of  the  conflict  for  any  but  sympathetic  eyes.  The  very  deli- 
cacy of  Caterina's  usual  appearance,  her  natural  paleness  and 
habitually  quiet  mouse-like  ways,  made  any  symptoms  of  fa- 
tigue and  suffering  less  noticeable.  And  her  singing — the  one 
thing  in  which  she  ceased  to  be  passive,  and  became  promi- 
nent— lost  none  of  its  energy.  She  herself  sometimes  won- 
dered how  it  was  that,  whether  she  felt  sad  or  angry,  crushed 
with  the  sense  of  Anthony's  indifference,  or  burning  with  im- 
patience under  Miss  Assher's  attentions,  it  was  always  a  relief 
to  her  to  sing.  Those  full  deep  notes  she  sent  forth  seemed 
to  be  lifting  the  pain  from  her  heart — seemed  to  be  carrying 
away  the  madness  from  her  brain. 

Thus  Lady  Cheverel  noticed  no  change  in  Caterina,  and  it 
was  only  Mr.  Gilfil  who  discerned  with  anxiety  the  feverish 
spot  that  sometimes  rose  on  her  cheek,  the  deepening  violet 
tint  under  her  eyes,  and  the  strange  absent  glance,  the  un- 
healthy glitter  of  the  beautifid  eyes  themselves. 

But  those  agitated  nights  were  producing  a  more  fatal  effect 
than  was  represented  by  these  slight  outward  changes. 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE  following  Sunday,  the  morning  being  rainy,  it  was  de- 
termined that  the  family  should  not  go  to  Cumbermoor 
Church  as  usual,  but  that  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  only  an  after- 
noon service  at  his  curacy,  should  conduct  the  morning  service 
in  the  chapel. 

Just  before  the  appointed  hour  of  eleven,  Caterina  came 
down  into  the  drawing-room,  looking  so  unusually  ill  as  to 
call  forth  an  anxious  inquiry  from  Lady  Cheverel,  who,  on 
learning  that  she  had  a  severe  headache,  insisted  that  she 
should  not  attend  service,  and  at  once  packed  her  up  comfort- 
ably on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  putting  a  volume  of  Tillotson's 
Sermons  into  her  hands — as  appropriate  reading,  if  Caterina 
should  feel  equal  to  that  means  of  edification. 

Excellent  medicine  for  the  mind  are  the  good  Archbishop's 
sermons,  but  a  medicine,  unhappily,  not  suited  to  Tina's 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  157 

case.  She  sat  with  the  book  open  on  her  knees,  her  dark  eyes 
fixed  vacantly  on  the  portrait  of  that  handsome  Lady  Cheverel, 
wife  of  the  notable  Sir  Anthony.  She  gazed  at  the  picture 
without  thinking  of  it,  and  the  fair  blond  dame  seemed  to  look 
down  on  her  with  that  benignant  unconcern,  that  mild  won- 
der, with  which  happy,  self-possessed  women  are  apt  to  look 
down  on  their  agitated  and  weaker  sisters. 

Caterina  was  thinking  of  the  near  future — of  the  wedding 
that  was  so  soon  to  come — of  all  she  would  have  to  live 
through  in  the  next  months. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  very  ill,  and  die  before  then,"  she 
thought.  "  When  people  get  very  ill,  they  don't  mind  about 
things.  Poor  Patty  Richards  looked  so  happy  when  she  was 
in  a  decline.  She  didn't  seem  to  care  any  more  about  her 
lover  that  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to,  and  she  liked  the 
smell  of  the  flowers  so,  that  I  used  to  take  her.  Oh,  if  I  could 
but  like  anything — if  I  could  but  think  about  anything  else! 
If  these  dreadful  feelings  would  go  away,  I  wouldn't  mind 
about  not  being  happy.  I  wouldn't  want  anything — and  I 
could  do  what  would  please  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Chev- 
erel. But  when  that  rage  and  anger  comes  into  me,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  I  don't  feel  the  ground  under  me;  I  only 
feel  my  head  and  heart  beating,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  must  do 
something  dreadful.  Oh !  I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  felt  like 
me  before.  I  must  be  very  wicked.  But  God  will  have  pity 
on  me ;  He  knows  all  I  have  to  bear. " 

In  this  way  the  time  wore  on  till  Tina  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  along  the  passage,  and  became  conscious  that  the  vol- 
ume of  Tillotson  had  slipped  on  the  floor.  She  had  only  just 
picked  it  up,  and  seen  with  alarm  that  the  pages  were  bent, 
when  Lady  Assher,  Beatrice,  and  Captain  Wybrow  entered, 
all  with  that  brisk  and  cheerful  air  which  a  sermon  is  often 
observed  to  produce  when  it  is  quite  finished. 

Lady  Assher  at  once  came  and  seated  herself  by  Caterina. 
Her  ladyship  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  a  doze,  and 
was  in  great  force  for  monologue. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Sarti,  and  how  do  you  feel  now? — a 
little  better,  I  see.  I  thought  you  would  be,  sitting  quietly 
here.  These  headaches,  now,  are  all  from  weakness.  You 


158  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

must  not  over-exert  yourself,  and  3*ou  must  take  bitters.  I 
used  to  have  just  the  same  sort  of  headaches  when  I  was  your 
age,  and  old  Dr.  Samson  used  to  say  to  my  mother :  '  Madam, 
what  your  daughter  suffers  from  is  weakness. ;  He  was  such 
a  curious  old  man,  was  Dr.  Samson.  But  I  wish  you  could 
have  heard  the  sermon  this  morning.  Such  an  excellent  ser- 
mon! It  was  about  the  ten  virgins:  five  of  them  were  fool- 
ish, and  five  were  clever,  you  know ;  and  Mr.  Gilfil  explained 
all  that.  What  a  very  pleasant  young  man  he  is!  so  very 
quiet  and  agreeable,  and  such  a  good  hand  at  whist.  I  wish 
we  had  him  at  Farleigh.  Sir  John  would  have  liked  him  be- 
yond anything ;  he  is  so  good-tempered  at  cards,  and  he  was 
such  a  man  for  cards,  was  Sir  John.  And  our  rector  is  a  very 
irritable  man ;  he  can't  bear  to  lose  his  money  at  cards.  I 
don't  think  a  clergyman  ought  to  mind  about  losing  his  money ; 
do  you? — do  you  now?  " 

"  Oh  pray,  Lady  Assher, "  interposed  Beatrice,  in  her  usual 
tone  of  superiority,  "  do  not  weary  poor  Caterina  with  such 
uninteresting  questions.  Your  head  seems  very  bad  still, 
dear,"  she  continued,  in  a  condoling  tone,  to  Caterina;  "do 
take  my  vinaigrette,  and  keep  it  in  your  pocket.  It  will  per- 
haps refresh  you  now  and  then. " 

"No,  thank  you,"  answered  Caterina;  "I  will  not  take  it 
away  from  you." 

"Indeed,  dear,  I  never  use  it;  you  must  take  it,"  Miss 
Assher  persisted,  holding  it  close  to  Tina's  hand.  Tina  col- 
ored deeply,  pushed  the  vinaigrette  away  with  some  impa- 
tience, and  said :  "  Thank  you,  I  never  use  those  things.  I 
don't  like  vinaigrettes." 

Miss  Assher  returned  the  vinaigrette  to  her  pocket  in  sur- 
prise and  haughty  silence,  and  Captain  Wybrow,  who  had 
looked  on  in  some  alarm,  said  hastily :  "  See !  it  is  quite 
bright  out  of  doors  now.  There  is  time  for  a  walk  before 
luncheon.  Come,  Beatrice,  put  on  your  hat  and  cloak,  and 
let  us  have  half  an  hour's  walk  on  the  gravel." 

"Yes,  do,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Assher,  "and  I  will  go  and 
see  if  Sir  Christopher  is  having  his  walk  in  the  gallery." 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  two  ladies,  Cap- 
tain Wybrow,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  turned 


MR.   GILPIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  159 

toward  Caterina,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  earnest  remonstrance : 
"  My  dear  Caterina,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  exercise  more  con- 
trol over  your  feelings ;  you  are  really  rude  to  Miss  Assher, 
and  I  can  see  that  she  is  quite  hurt.  Consider  how  strange 
your  behavior  must  appear  to  her.  She  will  wonder  what  can 
be  the  cause  of  it.  Come,  dear  Tina,"  he  added,  approaching 
her,  and  attempting  to  take  her  hand;  "for  your  own  sake  let 
me  entreat  you  to  receive  her  attentions  politely.  She  really 
feels  very  kindly  toward  you,  and  I  should  be  so  happy  to  see 
you  friends." 

Caterina  was  already  in  such  a  state  of  diseased  susceptibil- 
ity that  the  most  innocent  words  from  Captain  Wybrow  would 
have  been  irritating  to  her,  as  the  whirr  of  the  most  delicate 
wing  will  afflict  a  nervous  patient.  But  this  tone  of  benevo- 
lent remonstrance  was  intolerable.  He  had  inflicted  a  great 
and  unrepented  injury  on  her,  and  now  he  assumed  an  air  of 
benevolence  toward  her.  This  was  a  new  outrage.  His  pro- 
fession of  good  will  was  insolence. 

Caterina  snatched  away  her  hand  and  said  indignantly: 
"Leave  me  to  myself,  Captain  Wybrow!  I  do  not  disturb 
you." 

"Caterina,  why  will  you  be  so  violent — so  unjust  to  me? 
It  is  for  you  that  I  feel  anxious.  Miss  Assher  has  already 
noticed  how  strange  your  behavior  is  both  to  her  and  me,  and 
it  puts  me  into  a  very  difficult  position.  What  can  I  say  to 
her?" 

"Say?"  Caterina  burst  forth  with  intense  bitterness,  ris- 
ing, and  moving  toward  the  door;  "say  that  I  am  a  poor  silly 
girl,  and  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  and  am  jealous  of  her; 
but  that  you  have  never  had  any  feeling  but  pity  for  me — 
you  have  never  behaved  with  anything  more  than  friendliness 
to  me.  Tell  her  that,  and  she  will  think  all  the  better  of 
you." 

Tina  uttered  this  as  the  bitterest  sarcasm  her  ideas  would 
furnish  her  with,  not  having  the  faintest  suspicion  that  the 
sarcasm  derived  any  of  its  bitterness  from  truth.  Under- 
neath all  her  sense  of  wrong,  which  was  rather  instinctive 
than  reflective — underneath  all  the  madness  of  her  jealousy, 
and  her  ungovernable  impulses  of  resentment  and  vindictive- 


160  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ness — underneath  all  this  scorching  passion  there  were  still 
left  some  hidden  crystal  dews  of  trust,  of  self -reproof,  of  belief 
that  Anthony  was  trying  to  do  the  right.  Love  had  not  all 
gone  to  feed  the  fires  of  hatred.  Tina  still  trusted  that  An- 
thony felt  more  for  her  than  he  seemed  to  feel ;  she  was  still 
far  from  suspecting  him  of  a  wrong  which  a  woman  resents 
even  more  than  inconstancy.  And  she  threw  out  this  taunt 
simply  as  the  most  intense  expression  she  could  find  for  the 
anger  of  the  moment. 

As  she  stood  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  little 
body  trembling  under  the  shock  of  passions  too  strong  for  it, 
her  very  lips  pale,  and  her  eyes  gleaming,  the  door  opened, 
and  Miss  Assher  appeared,  tall,  blooming,  and  splendid,  in 
her  walking  costume.  As  she  entered,  her  face  wore  the 
smile  appropriate  to  the  exits  and  entrances  of  a  young  lady 
who  feels  that  her  presence  is  an  interesting  fact;  but  the  next 
moment  she  looked  at  Caterina  with  grave  surprise,  and  then 
threw  a  glance  of  angry  suspicion  at  Captain  Wybrow,  who 
wore  an  air  of  weariness  and  vexation. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  too  much  engaged  to  walk  out,  Captain 
Wybrow?  I  will  go  alone." 

"No,  no,  I  am  coming,"  he  answered,  hurrying  toward  her, 
and  leading  her  out  of  the  room ;  leaving  poor  Caterina  to  feel 
all  the  reaction  of  shame  and  self-reproach  after  her  outburst 
of  passion. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  PRAT,  what  is  likely  to  be  the  next  scene  in  the  drama 
between  you  and  Miss  Sarti?  "  said  Miss  Assher  to  Captain 
Wybrow  as  soon  as  they  were  out  on  the  gravel.  "  It  would 
be  agreeable  to  have  some  idea  of  what  is  coming." 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  felt  out  of  humor,  wea- 
ried, annoyed.  There  come  moments  when  one  almost  deter- 
mines never  again  to  oppose  anything  but  dead  silence  to  an 
angry  woman.  "Now  then,  confound  it,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"I'm  going  to  be  battered  on  the  other  flank."  He  looked 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  161 

resolutely  at  the  horizon,  with  something  more  like  a  frown 
on  his  face  than  Beatrice  had  ever  seen  there. 

After  a  pause  of  two  or  three  minutes,  she  continued  in  a 
still  haughtier  tone,  "I  suppose  you  are  aware,  Captain 
Wybrow,  that  I  expect  an  explanation  of  what  I  have  just 
seen." 

"  I  have  no  explanation,  my  dear  Beatrice, "  he  answered  at 
last,  making  a  strong  effort  over  himself,  "  except  what  I  have 
already  given  you.  I  hoped  you  would  never  recur  to  the 
subject." 

"  Your  explanation,  however,  is  very  far  from  satisfactory. 
I  can  only  say  that  the  airs  Miss  Sarti  thinks  herself  entitled 
to  put  on  toward  you,  are  quite  incompatible  with  your  posi- 
tion as  regards  me.  And  her  behavior  to  me  is  most  in- 
sulting. I  shall  certainly  not  stay  in  the  house  under  such 
circumstances,  and  mamma  must  state  the  reasons  to  Sir 
Christopher. " 

"  Beatrice, "  said  Captain  Wybrow,  his  irritation  giving  way 
to  alarm,  "  I  beseech  you  to  be  patient,  and  exercise  your  good 
feelings  in  this  affair.  It  is  very  painful,  I  know,  but  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  grieved  to  injure  poor  Caterina — to  bring 
down  my  uncle's  anger  upon  her.  Consider  what  a  poor  little 
dependent  thing  she  is." 

"  It  is  very  adroit  of  you  to  make  these  evasions,  but  do  not 
suppose  that  they  deceive  me.  Miss  Sarti  would  never  dare 
to  behave  to  you  as  she  does,  if  you  had  not  flirted  with  her, 
or  made  love  to  her.  I  suppose  she  considers  your  engage- 
ment to  me  a  breach  of  faith  to  her.  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you,  certainly,  for  making  me  Miss  Sarti' s  rival.  You  have 
told  me  a  falsehood,  Captain  Wybrow." 

"  Beatrice,  I  solemnly  declare  to  you  that  Caterina  is  noth- 
ing more  to  me  than  a  girl  I  naturally  feel  kindly  to — as  a 
favorite  of  my  uncle's,  and  a  nice  little  thing  enough.  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  her  married  to  Gilfil  to-morrow ;  that's 
a  good  proof  that  I'm  not  in  love  with  her,  I  should  think. 
As  to  the  past,  I  may  have  shown  her  little  attentions,  which 
she  has  exaggerated  and  misinterpreted.  What  man  is  not 
liable  to  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  But  what  can  she  found  her  behavior  on?     What  had  she 


162  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

been  saying  to  you  this  morning  to  make  her  tremble  and  turn 
pale  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  said  something  about  her  be- 
having peevishly  With  that  Italian  blood  of  hers,  there's  no 
knowing  how  she  may  take  what  one  says.  She's  a  fierce 
little  thing,  though  she  seems  so  quiet  generally." 

"  But  she  ought  to  be  made  to  know  how  unbecoming  and 
indelicate  her  conduct  is.  For  my  part,  I  wonder  Lady  Chev- 
erel  has  not  noticed  her  short  answers  and  the  airs  she  puts 
on." 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Beatrice,  not  to  hint  anything  of  the 
kind  to  Lady  Cheverel.  You  must  have  observed  how  strict 
my  aunt  is.  It  never  enters  her  head  that  a  girl  can  be  in 
love  with  a  man  who  has  not  made  her  an  offer." 

"  Well,  I  shall  let  Miss  Sarti  know  myself  that  I  have  ob- 
served her  conduct.  It  will  be  only  a  charity  to  her." 

"Nay,  dear,  that  will  be  doing  nothing  but  harm.  Cate- 
rina's  temper  is  peculiar.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  will  be 
to  leave  her  to  herself  as  much  as  possible.  It  will  all  wear 
off.  I've  no  doubt  she'll  be  married  to  Gilfil  before  long. 
Girls'  fancies  are  easily  diverted  from  one  object  to  another. 
By  Jove,  what  a  rate  my  heart  is  galloping  at !  These  con- 
founded palpitations  get  worse  instead  of  better." 

Thus  ended  the  conversation,  so  far  as  it  concerned  Cate- 
rina,  not  without  leaving  a  distinct  resolution  in  Captain  Wy- 
brow's  mind — a  resolution  carried  into  effect  the  next  day, 
when  he  was  in  the  library  with  Sir  Christopher  for  the  pur- 
pose of  discussing  some  arrangements  about  the  approaching 
marriage. 

"  By  the  by, "  he  said  carelessly,  when  the  business  came  to 
a  pause,  and  he  was  sauntering  round  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  coat  pockets,  surveying  the  backs  of  the  books  that  lined 
the  walls,  "when  is  the  wedding  between  Gilfil  and  Caterina 
to  come  off,  sir?  I've  a  fellow-feeling  for  a  poor  devil  so 
many  fathoms  deep  in  love  as  Maynard.  Why  shouldn't 
their  marriage  happen  as  soon  as  ours?  I  suppose  he  has 
come  to  an  understanding  with  Tina?  " 

"Why,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  "I  did  think  of  letting  the 
thing  be  until  old  Crichley  died ;  he  can't  hold  out  very  long, 


MR.   GILFIL' S  LOVE-STORY.  163 

poor  fellow ;  and  then  Maynard  might  have  entered  into  mat- 
rimony and  the  Rectory  both  at  once.  But,  after  all,  that 
really  is  no  good  reason  for  waiting.  There  is  no  need  for 
them  to  leave  the  Manor  when  they  are  married.  The  little 
monkey  is  quite  old  enough.  It  would  be  pretty  to  see  her  a 
matron,  with  a  baby  about  the  size  of  a  kitten  in  her  arms." 

"  I  think  that  system  of  waiting  is  always  bad.  And  if  I 
can  further  any  settlement  you  would  like  to  make  on  Cate- 
rina,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  carry  out  your  wishes." 

"My  dear  boy,  that's  very  good  of  you;  but  Maynard  will 
have  enough;  and  from  what  I  know  of  him — and  I  know  him 
well — I  think  he  would  rather  provide  for  Caterina  himself. 
However,  now  you  have  put  this  matter  into  my  head,  I  begin 
to  blame  myself  for  not  having  thought  of  it  before.  I've 
been  so  wrapt  up  in  Beatrice  and  you,  you  rascal,  that  I  had 
really  forogtten  poor  Maynard.  And  he's  older  than  you — 
it's  high  time  he  was  settled  in  life  as  a  family  man." 

Sir  Christopher  paused,  took  snuff  in  a  meditative  manner, 
and  presently^said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Anthony,  who  was 
humming  a  tune  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  "  Yes,  yes.  It 
will  be  a  capital  plan  to  finish  off  all  our  family  business  at 
once." 

Riding  out  with  Miss  Assher  the  same  morning,  Captain 
Wybrow  mentioned  to  her  incidentally,  that  Sir  Christopher 
was  anxious  to  bring  about  the  wedding  between  Gilfil  and 
Caterina  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he,  for  his  part,  should 
do  all  he  could  to  further  the  affair.  It  would  be  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  Tina,  in  whose  welfare  he  was  really 
interested. 

With  Sir  Christopher  there  was  never  any  long  interval  be- 
tween purpose  and  execution.  He  made  up  his  mind  promptly, 
and  he  acted  promptly.  On  rising  from  luncheon,  he  said  to 
Mr.  Gilfil,  "  Come  with  me  into  the  library,  Maynard.  I  want 
to  have  a  word  with  you." 

"  Maynard,  my  boy,"  he  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  seated, 
tapping  his  snuff-box,  and  looking  radiant  at  the  idea  of  the 
unexpected  pleasure  he  was  about  to  give,  "  why  shouldn't  we 
have  two  happy  couples  instead  of  one,  before  the  autumn  is 
over,  eh?" 


164  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Eh?"  he  repeated,  after  a  moment's  pause,  lengthening 
out  the  monosyllable,  taking  a  slow  pinch,  and  looking  up  at 
Maynard  with  a  sly  smile. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand  you,  sir,"  answered 
Mr.  Gilfil,  who  felt  annoyed  at  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
turning  pale. 

"Not  understand  me,  you  rogue?  You  know  very  well 
whose  happiness  lies  nearest  to  my  heart  after  Anthony's. 
You  know  you  let  me  into  your  secrets  long  ago,  so  there's 
no  confession  to  make.  Tina's  quite  old  enough  to  be  a  grave 
little  wife  now;  and  though  the  Rectory's  not  ready  for  you, 
that's  no  matter.  My  lady  and  I  shall  feel  all  the  more  com- 
fortable for  having  you  with  us.  We  should  miss  our  little 
singing-bird  if  we  lost  her  all  at  once." 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  himself  in  a  painfully  difficult  position.  He 
dreaded  that  Sir  Christopher  should  surmise  or  discover  the 
true  state  of  Caterina's  feelings,  and  yet  he  was  obliged  to 
make  those  feelings  the  ground  of  his  reply. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  at  last  said  with  some  effort,  "you  will 
not  suppose  that  I  am  not  alive  to  your  goodness — that  I  am 
not  grateful  for  your  fatherly  interest  in  my  happiness ;  but 
I  fear  that  Caterina's  feelings  toward  me  are  not  such  as  to 
warrant  the  hope  that  she  would  accept  a  proposal  of  marriage 
from  me." 

"Have  you  ever  asked  her?  " 

"  No,  sir.  But  we  often  know  these  things  too  well  with- 
out asking." 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  the  little  monkey  must  love  you.  Why,  you 
were  her  first  playfellow ;  and  I  remember  she  used  to  cry  if 
you  cut  your  finger.  Besides,  she  has  always  silently  admitted 
that  you  were  her  lover.  You  know  I  have  always  spoken  of 
you  to  her  in  that  light.  I  took  it  for  granted  you  had  set- 
tled the  business  between  yourselves ;  so  did  Anthony.  An- 
thony thinks  she's  in  love  with  you,  and  he  has  young 
eyes,  which  are  apt  enough  to  see  clearly  in  these  matters. 
He  was  talking  to  me  about  it  this  morning,  and  pleased 
me  very  much  by  the  friendly  interest  he  showed  in  you 
and  Tina." 

The  blood — more  than  was  wanted — rushed  back  to  Mr. 


MR.    GILPIL'S  LOVE  STORY.  165 

Gilfil's  face;  he  set  his  teeth  and  clinched  his  hands  in  the 
effort  to  repress  a  burst  of  indignation.  Sir  Christopher  no- 
ticed the  flush,  but  thought  it  indicated  the  fluctuation  of 
hope  and  fear  about  Caterina.  He  went  on — 

"  You're  too  modest  by  half,  Maynard.  A  fellow  who  can 
take  a  five-barred  gate  as  you  can,  ought  not  to  be  so  faint- 
hearted. If  you  can't  speak  to  her  yourself,  leave  me  to  talk 
to  her." 

"  Sir  Christopher, "  said  poor  Maynard,  earnestly,  "  I  shall 
really  feel  it  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  possibly  show  me 
not  to  mention  this  subject  to  Caterina  at  present.  I  think 
such  a  proposal,  made  prematurely,  might  only  alienate  her 
from  me." 

Sir  Christopher  was  getting  a  little  displeased  at  this  con- 
tradiction. His  tone  became  a  little  sharper  as  he  said, 
"  Have  you  any  grounds  to  state  for  this  opinion,  beyond  your 
general  notion  that  Tina  is  not  enough  in  love  with  you?  " 

"  I  can  state  none  beyond  my  own  very  strong  impression 
that  she  does  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me." 

"  Then  I  think  that  ground  is  worth  nothing  at  all.  I  am 
tolerably  correct  in  my  judgment  of  people ;  and  if  I  am  not 
very  much  deceived  in  Tina,  she  looks  forward  to  nothing  else 
but  to  your  being  her  husband.  Leave  me  to  manage  the 
matter  as  I  think  best.  You  may  rely  on  me  that  I  shall  do 
no  harm  to  your  cause,  Maynard. " 

Mr.  Gilfil,  afraid  to  say  more,  yet  wretched  in  the  prospect 
of  what  might  result  from  Sir  Christopher's  determination, 
quitted  the  library  in  a  state  of  mingled  indignation  against 
Captain  Wybrow,  and  distress  for  himself  and  Caterina. 
What  would  she  think  of  him?  She^  might  suppose  that  he 
had  instigated  or  sanctioned  Sir  Christopher's  proceeding. 
He  should  perhaps  not  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her 
on  the  subject  in  time ;  he  would  write  her  a  note,  and  carry 
it  up  to  her  room  after  the  dressing-bell  had  rung.  No;  that 
would  agitate  her,  and  unfit  her  for  appearing  at  dinner,  and 
passing  the  evening  calmly.  He  would  defer  it  till  bedtime. 
After  prayers,  he  contrived  to  lead  her  back  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  to  put  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  carried  it  up  to 
her  own  room,  wondering,  and  there  read — 


166  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

DEAR  CATKRINA, — Do  not  suspect  for  a  moment  that  anything  Sir 
Christopher  may  say  to  you  about  our  marriage  has  been  prompted  by  me. 
I  have  done  all  I  dare  do  to  dissuade  him  from  urging  the  subject,  and 
have  only  been  prevented  from  speaking  more  strongly  by  the  dread  of 
provoking  questions  which  I  could  not  answer  without  causing  you  fresh 
misery.  I  write  this,  both  to  prepare  you  for  anything  Sir  Christopher 
may  say,  and  to  assure  you — but  I  hope  you  already  believe  it — that 
your  feelings  are  sacred  to  me.  I  would  rather  part  with  the  dearest 
hope  of  my  life  than  be  the  means  of  adding  to  your  trouble. 

It  is  Captain  Wybrow  who  has  prompted  Sir  Christopher  to  take  up 
the  subject  at  this  moment.  I  tell  you  this,  to  save  you  from  hearing 
it  suddenly  when  you  are  with  Sir  Christopher.  You  see  now  what  sort 
of  stuff  that  dastard's  heart  is  made  of.  Trust  in  me  always,  dearest 
Caterina,  as — whatever  may  come — your  faithful  friend  and  brother, 

MAYNARD  GILFIL. 

Caterina  was  at  first  too  terribly  stung  by  the  words  about 
Captain  Wybrow  to  think  of  the  difficulty  which  threatened 
her — to  think  either  of  what  Sir  Christopher  would  say  to  her, 
or  of  what  she  could  say  in  reply.  Bitter  sense  of  injury, 
fierce  resentment,  left  no  room  for  fear.  With  the  poisoned 
garment  upon  him,  the  victim  writhes  under  the  torture — he 
has  no  thought  of  the  coming  death. 

Anthony  could  do  this! — Of  this  there  could  be  no  explana- 
tion but  the  coolest  contempt  for  her  feelings,  the  basest  sac- 
rifice of  all  the  consideration  and  tenderness  he  owed  her  to 
the  ease  of  his  position  with  Miss  Assher.  No.  It  was 
worse  than  that:  it  was  deliberate,  gratuitous  cruelty. 
He  wanted  to  show  her  how  he  despised  her;  he  wanted 
to  make  her  feel  her  folly  in  having  ever  believed  that  he 
loved  her. 

The  last  crystal  drops  of  trust  and  tenderness,  she  thought, 
were  dried  up;  all  was  parched,  fiery  hatred.  Now  she  need 
no  longer  check  her  resentment  by  the  fear  of  doing  him  an 
injustice;  he  had  trifled  with  her,  as  Maynard  had  said;  he 
had  been  reckless  of  her;  and  now  he  was  base  and  cruel. 
.She  had  cause  enough  for  her  bitterness  and  anger ;  they  were 
not  so  wicked  as  they  had  seemed  to  her. 

As  these  thoughts  were  hurrying  after  each  other  like  so 
winy  sharp  throbs  of  fevered  pain,  she  shed  no  tear.  She 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro,  as  her  habit  was — her  hands 
clinched,  her  eyes  gleaming  fiercely  and  wandering  uneasily, 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  167 

as  if  in  search  of  something  on  which  she  might  throw  herself 
like  a  tigress. 

"If  I  could  speak  to  him,"  she  whispered,  "and  tell  him  I 
hate  him,  I  despise  him,  I  loathe  him !  " 

Suddenly,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her,  she  drew  a 
key  from  her  pocket,  and  unlocking  an  inlaid  desk  where  she 
stored  up  her  keepsakes,  took  from  it  a  small  miniature.  It 
was  in  a  very  slight  gold  frame,  with  a  ring  to  it,  as  if 
intended  to  be  worn  on  a  chain ;  and  under  the  glass  at  the 
back  were  two  locks  of  hair,  one  dark  and  the  other  auburn, 
arranged  in.  a  fantastic  knot.  It  was  Anthony's  secret  pres- 
ent to  her  a  year  ago — a  copy  he  had  had  made  specially  for 
her.  For  the  last  month  she  had  not  taken  it  from  its  hiding- 
place  :  there  was  no  need  to  heighten  the  vividness  of  the 
past.  But  now  she  clutched  it  fiercely,  and  dashed  it  across 
the  room  against  the  bare  hearthstone. 

Will  she  crush  it  under  her  feet,  and  grind  it  under  her 
high-heeled  shoe,  till  every  trace  of  those  false  cruel  features 
is  gone? 

Ah,  no !  She  rushed  across  the  room ;  but  when  she  saw 
the  little  treasure  she  had  cherished  so  fondly,  so  often 
smothered  with  kisses,  so  often  laid  under  her  pillow,  and  re- 
membered with  the  first  return  of  consciousness  in  the  morn- 
ing— when  she  saw  this  one  visible  relic  of  the  too  happy  past 
lying  with  the  glass  shivered,  the  hair  fallen  out,  the  thin 
ivory  cracked,  there  was  a  revulsion  of  the  overstrained  feel- 
ing :  relenting  came,  and  she  biirst  into  tears. 

Look  at  her  stooping  down  to  gather  up  her  treasure,  search 
ing  for  the  hair  and  replacing  it,  and  then  mournfully  exam- 
ining the  crack  that  disfigures  the  once-loved  image.  There 
is  no  glass  now  to  guard  either  the  hair  or  the  portrait ;  but 
see  how  carefully  she  wraps  delicate  paper  round  it,  and  locks 
it  up  again  in  its  old  place.  Poor  child !  God  send  the  re- 
lenting may  always  come  before  the  worst  irrevocable  deed! 

This  action  had  quieted  her,  and  she  sat  down  to  read  May- 
nard's  letter  again.  She  read  it  two  or  three  times  without 
seeming  to  take  in  the  sense;  her  apprehension  was  dulled  by 
the  passion  of  the  last  hour,  and  she  found  it  difficult  to  call 
up  the  ideas  suggested  by  the  words.  At  last  she  began  to 


168  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

have  a  distinct  conception  of  the  impending  interview  with  Sir 
Christopher.  The  idea  of  displeasing  the  Baronet,  of  whom 
every  one  at  the  Manor  stood  in  awe,  frightened  her  so  much 
that  she  thought  it  would  be  impossible  to  resist  his  wish. 
He  believed  that  she  loved  Maynard;  he  had  always  spoken 
as  if  he  were  quite  sure  of  it.  How  could  she  tell  him  he  was 
deceived — and  what  if  he  were  to  ask  her  whether  she  loved 
anybody  else?  To  have  Sir  Christopher  looking  angrily  at 
her,  was  more  than  she  could  bear,  even  in  imagination.  He 
had  always  been  so  good  to  her !  Then  she  began  to  think  of 
the  pain  she  might  give  him,  and  the  more  selfish  distress  of 
fear  gave  way  to  the  distress  of  affection.  Unselfish  tears 
began  to  flow,  and  sorrowful  gratitude  to  Sir  Christopher 
helped  to  awaken  her  sensibility  to  Mr.  Gilfil's  tenderness  and 
generosity. 

"Dear,  good  Maynard! — what  a  poor  return  I  make  him! 
If  I  could  but  have  loved  him  instead — but  I  can  never  love 
or  care  for  anything  again.  My  heart  is  broken." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  next  morning  the  dreaded  moment  came.  Caterina, 
stupefied  by  the  suffering  of  the  previous  night,  with  that 
dull  mental  aching  which  follows  on  acute  anguish,  was  in 
Lady  Cheverel's  sitting-room,  copying  out  some  charity  lists, 
when  her  ladyship  came  in,  and  said — 

"  Tina,  Sir  Christopher  wants  you ;  go  down  into  the  library. " 

She  went  down  trembling.  As  soon  as  she  entered,  Sir 
Christopher,  who  was  seated  near  his  writing-table,  said, 
"Now,  little  monkey,  come  and  sit  down  by  me;  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

Caterina  took  a  footstool,  and  seated  herself  on  it  at  the 
Baronet's  feet.  It  was  her  habit  to  sit  on  these  low  stools, 
and  in  this  way  she  could  hide  her  face  better.  She  put  her 
little  arm  round  his  leg.  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his 
knee. 

"Why,  you  seem  out  of  spirits  this  morning,  Tina. 
What's  the  matter,  eh?  " 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  169 

"  Nothing,  Padroncello ;  only  my  head  is  bad. " 

"Poor  monkey!  Well,  now,  wouldn't  it  do  the  head  good 
if  I  were  to  promise  you  a  good  husband,  and  smart  little  wed- 
ding-gowns, and  by  and  by  a  house  of  your  own,  where  you 
would  be  a  little  mistress,  and  Padroncello  would  come  and 
see  you  sometimes?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no!  I  shouldn't  like  ever  to  be  married.  Let  me 
always  stay  with  you !  " 

"Pooh,  pooh,  little  simpleton.  I  shall  get  old  and  tire- 
some, and  there  will  be  Anthony's  children  putting  your  nose 
out  of  joint.  You  will  want  some  one  to  love  you  best  of  all, 
and  you  must  have  children  of  your  own  to  love.  I  can't  have 
you  withering  away  into  an  old  maid.  I  hate  old  maids :  they 
make  me  dismal  to  look  at  them.  I  never  see  Sharp  without 
shuddering.  My  little  black-eyed  monkey  was  never  meant 
for  anything  so  ugly.  And  there's  Maynard  Gilfil,  the  best 
man  in  the  county,  worth  his  weight  in  gold,  heavy  as  he  is ; 
he  loves  you  better  than  his  eyes.  And  you  love  him  too, 
you  silly  monkey,  whatever  you  may  say  about  not  being 
married." 

"  No,  no,  dear  Padroncello,  do  not  say  so ;  I  could  not  marry 
him." 

"  Why  not,  you  foolish  child?  You  don't  know  your  own 
mind.  Why,  it  is  plain  to  everybody  that  you  love  him.  My 
lady  has  all  along  said  she  was  sure  you  loved  him — she  has 
seen  what  little  princess  airs  you  put  on  to  him ;  and  Anthony 
too,  he  thinks  you  are  in  love  with  Gilfil.  Come,  what  has 
made  you  take  it  into  your  head  that  you  wouldn't  like  to 
marry  him?  " 

Caterina  was  now  sobbing  too  deeply  to  make  any  answer. 
Sir  Christopher  patted  her  on  the  back  and  said,  "Come, 
come;  why,  Tina,  you  are  not  well  this  morning.  Go  and 
rest,  little  one.  You  will  see  things  in  quite  another  light 
when  you  are  well.  Think  over  what  I  have  said,  and  re- 
member there  is  nothing,  after  Anthony's  marriage,  that  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  so  much  as  seeing  you  and  Maynard  set- 
tled for  life.  I  must  have  no  whims  and  follies — no  non- 
sense." This  was  said  with  a  slight  severity;  but  he  pres- 
ently added,  in  a  soothing  tone,  "  There,  there,  stop  crying, 


1TO  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

and  be  a  good  little  monkey.  Go  and  lie  down  and  get  to 
sleep." 

Caterina  slipped  from  the  stool  on  to  her  knees,  took  the 
old  Baronet's  hand,  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  and  then 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

Before  the  evening,  Captain  Wybrow  had  heard  from  his 
uncle  the  result  of  the  interview  with  Caterina.  He  thought, 
"  If  I  could  have  a  long  quiet  talk  with  her,  I  could  perhaps 
persuade  her  to  look  more  reasonably  at  things.  But  there's 
no  speaking  to  her  in  the  house  without  being  interrupted, 
and  I  can  hardly  see  her  anywhere  else  without  Beatrice's 
finding  it  out."  At  last  he  determined  to  make  it  a  matter  of 
confidence  with  Miss  Assher — to  tell  her  that  he  wished  to 
talk  to  Caterina  quietly  for  the  sake  of  bringing  her  to  a  calmer 
state  of  mind,  and  persuade  her  to  listen  to  Giltil's  affection. 
He  was  very  much  pleased  with  this  judicious  and  candid 
plan,  and  in  the  course  of  the  evening  he  had  arranged  with 
himself  the  time  and  place  of  meeting,  and  had  communicated 
his  purpose  to  Miss  Assher,  who  gave  her  entire  approval. 
Anthony,  she  thought,  would  do  well  to  speak  plainly  and 
seriously  to  Miss  Sarti.  He  was  really  very  patient  and  kind 
to  her,  considering  how  she  behaved. 

Tina  had  kept  her  room  all  that  day,  and  had  been  carefully 
tended  as  an  invalid,  Sir  Christopher  having  told  her  ladyship 
how  matters  stood.  This  tendance  was  so  irksome  to  Cate- 
rina, she  felt  so  uneasy  under  attentions  and  kindness  that 
were  based  on  a  misconception,  that  she  exerted  herself  to  ap- 
pear at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and  declared  herself  well, 
though  head  and  heart  were  throbbing.  To  be  confined  in  her 
own  room  was  intolerable ;  it  was  wretched  enough  to  be  looked 
at  and  spoken  to,  but  it  was  more  wretched  to  be  left  alone. 
She  was  frightened  at  her  own  sensations :  she  was  fright- 
ened at  the  imperious  vividness  with  which  pictures  of  the 
past  and  future  thrust  themselves  on  her  imagination.  And 
there  was  another  feeling,  too,  which  made  her  want  to  be 
downstairs  and  moving  about.  Perhaps  she  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Captain  Wybrow  alone — of  speak- 
ing those  words  of  hatred  and  scorn  that  burned  on  her  tongue. 
That  opportunity  offered  itself  in  a  very  unexpected  manner. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  171 

Lady  Cheverel  having  sent  Caterina  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  to  fetch  some  patterns  of  embroidery  from  her  sitting- 
room,  Captain  Wybrow  presently  walked  out  after  her,  and 
met  her  as  she  was  returning  downstairs. 

"Caterina,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  wr,s 
hurrying  on  without  looking  at  him,  "  will  you  meet  me  in 
the  Kookery  at  twelve  o'clock?  I  must  speak  to  you,  and  we 
shall  be  in  privacy  there.  I  cannot  speak  to  you  in  the 
house. " 

To  his  surprise,  there  was  a  flash  of  pleasure  across  her 
face ;  she  answered  shortly  and  decidedly,  "  Yes, "  then 
snatched  her  arm  away  from  him,  and  passed  downstairs. 

Miss  Assher  was  this  morning  busy  winding  silks,  being 
bent  on  emulating  Lady  Cheverel's  embroidery,  and  Lady 
Assher  chose  the  passive  amusement  of  holding  the  skeins. 
Lady  Cheverel  had  now  all  her  working  apparatus  about  her, 
and  Caterina,  thinking  she  was  not  wanted,  went  away  and 
sat  down  to  the  harpsichord  in  the  sitting-room.  It  seemed  as 
if  playing  massive  chords— bringing  out  volumes  of  sound — 
would  be  the  easiest  way  of  passing  the  long  feverish  moments 
before  twelve  o'clock.  Handel's  "Messiah"  stood  open  on 
the  desk,  at  the  chorus,  "All  we  like  sheep,"  and  Caterina 
threw  herself  at  once  into  the  impetuous  intricacies  of  that 
magnificent  fugue.  In  her  happiest  moments  she  could  never 
have  played  it  so  well ;  for  now  all  the  passion  that  made  her 
misery  was  hurled  by  a  convulsive  effort  into  her  music,  just 
as  pain  gives  new  force  to  the  clutch  of  the  sinking  wrestler, 
and  as  terror  gives  far-sounding  intensity  to  the  shriek  of  the 
feeble. 

But  at  half -past  eleven  she  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Chev- 
erel, who  said,  "  Tina,  go  down,  will  you,  and  hold  Miss  As- 
sher's  silks  for  her.  Lady  Assher  and  I  have  decided  on  hav- 
ing our  drive  before  luncheon." 

Caterina  went  down,  wondering  how  she  should  escape  from 
the  drawing-room  in  time  to  be  in  the  Kookery  at  twelve. 
Nothing  should  prevent  her  from  going;  nothing  should  rob 
her  of  this  one  precious  moment — perhaps  the  last — when  she 
could  speak  out  the  thoughts  that  were  in  her.  After  that, 
she  would  be  passive ;  she  would  bear  anything. 


172  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

But  she  had  scarcely  sat  down  with  a  skein  of  yellow  silk 
on  her  hands,  when  Miss  Assher  said,  graciously — 

"  I  know  you  have  an  engagement  with  Captain  Wybrow 
this  morning.  You  must  not  let  me  detain  you  beyond  the 
time." 

"  So  he  has  been  talking  to  her  about  me, "  thought  Cate- 
rina.  Her  hands  began  to  tremble  as  she  held  the  skein. 

Miss  Assher  continued,  in  the  same  gracious  tone :  "  It  is 
tedious  work  holding  these  skeins.  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  No,  you  are  not  obliged  to  me, "  said  Caterina,  completely 
mastered  by  her  irritation ;  "  I  have  only  done  it  because  Lady 
Cheverel  told  me." 

The  moment  was  come  when  Miss  Assher  could  no  longer 
suppress  her  long  latent  desire  to  "  let  Miss  Sarti  know  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct."  With  the  malicious  anger  that 
assumes  the  tone  of  compassion,  she  said — 

"  Miss  Sarti,  I  am  really  sorry  for  you,  that  you  are  not 
able  to  control  yourself  better.  This  giving  way  to  unwar- 
rantable feelings  is  lowering  you — it  is  indeed. " 

"What  unwarrantable  feelings?"  said  Caterina,  letting  her 
hands  fall,  and  fixing  her  great  dark  eyes  steadily  on  Miss 
Assher. 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  more.  You  must 
be  conscious  what  I  mean.  Only  summon  a  sense  of  duty  to 
your  aid.  You  are  paining  Captain  Wybrow  extremely  by 
your  want  of  self-control." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  I  pained  him?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  did.  He  is  very  much  hurt  that  you 
should  behave  to  me  as  if  you  had  a  sort  of  enmity  toward 
me.  He  would  like  you  to  make  a  friend  of  me.  '  I  assure 
you  we  both  feel  very  kindly  toward  you,  and  are  sorry  you 
should  cherish  such  feelings." 

"  He  is  very  good, "  said  Caterina,  bitterly.  "  What  feel- 
ings did  he  say  I  cherished?  " 

This  bitter  tone  increased  Miss  Assher's  irritation.  There 
was  still  a  lurking  suspicion  in  her  mind,  though  she  would 
not  admit  it  to  herself,  that  Captain  Wybrow  had  told  her  a 
falsehood  about  his  conduct  and  feelings  toward  Caterina. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  173 

It  was  this  suspicion,  more  even  than  the  anger  of  the  mo- 
ment, which  urged  her  to  say  something  that  would  test  the 
truth  of  his  statement.  That  she  would  be  humiliating  Cate- 
rina  at  the  same  time  was  only  an  additional  temptation. 

"  These  are  things  I  do  not  like  to  talk  of,  Miss  Sarti.  1 
cannot  even  understand  how  a  woman  can  indulge  a  passion 
for  a  man  who  has  never  given  her  the  least  ground  for  it,  as 
Captain  Wybrow  assures  me  is  the  case." 

"He  told  you  that,  did  he?"  said  Caterina,  in  clear  low 
tones,  her  lips  turning  white  as  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  did.  He  was  bound  to  tell  it  to  me  after 
your  strange  behavior." 

Caterina  said  nothing,  but  turned  round  suddenly  and  left 
the  room. 

See  how  she  rushes  noiselessly,  like  a  pale  meteor,  along 
the  passages  and  up  the  gallery  stairs !  Those  gleaming  eyes, 
those  bloodless  lips,  that  swift  silent  tread,  make  her  look  like 
the  incarnation  of  a  fierce  purpose,  rather  than  a  woman. 
The  midday  sun  is  shining  on  the  armor  in  the  gallery,  mak- 
ing mimic  suns  on  bossed  sword-hilts  and  the  angles  of  polished 
breastplates.  Yes,  there  are  sharp  weapons  in  the  gallery. 
There  is  a  dagger  in  that  cabinet;  she  knows  it  well.  And 
as  a  dragon-fly  wheels  in  its  flight  to  alight  for  an  instant  on 
a  leaf,  she  darts  to  the  cabinet,  takes  out  the  dagger,  and 
thrusts  it  into  her  pocket.  In  three  minutes  more  she  is  out, 
in  hat  and  cloak,  on  the  gravel-walk,  hurrying  along  toward 
the  thick  shades  of  the  distant  Eookery.  She  threads  the 
windings  of  the  plantations,  not  feeling  the  golden  leaves  that 
rain  upon  her,  not  feeling  the  earth  beneath  her  feet.  Her 
hand  is  in  her  pocket,  clinching  the  handle  of  the  dagger, 
which  she  holds  half  out  of  its  sheath. 

She  has  reached  the  Rookery,  and  is  under  the  gloom  of  the 
interlacing  boughs.  Her  heart  throbs  as  if  it  would  burst  her 
bosom — as  if  every  next  leap  must  be  its  last.  Wait,  wait, 
O  heart ! — till  she  has  done  this  one  deed.  He  will  be  there 
— he  will  be  before  her  in  a  moment.  He  will  come  toward 
her  with  that  false  smile,  thinking  she  does  not  know  his 
baseness — she  will  plunge  that  dagger  into  his  heart. 

Poor  child !  poor  child !  she  who  used  to  cry  to  have  the  fish 


174  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

put  back  into  the  water — who  never  willingly  killed  the  small- 
est living  thing — dreams  now,  in  the  madness  of  her  passion, 
that  she  can  kill  the  man  whose  very  voice  unnerves  her. 

But  what  is  that  lying  among  the  dank  leaves  on  the  path 
three  yards  before  her? 

Good  God!  it  is  he — lying  motionless — his  hat  fallen  off. 
He  is  ill,  then — he  has  fainted.  Her  hand  lets  go  the  dagger, 
and  she  rushes  toward  him.  His  eyes  are  fixed ;  he  does  not 
see  her.  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees,  takes  the  dear  head 
in  her  arms,  and  kisses  the  cold  forehead. 

"Anthony,  Anthony!  speak  to  me — it  is  Tina — speak  to 
me !  0  God,  he  is  dead !  " 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

"  YES,  Maynard, "  said  Sir  Christopher,  chatting  with  Mr. 
Gilfil  in  the  library,  "  it  really  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  I 
never  in  my  life  laid  a  plan,  and  failed  to  carry  it  out.  I  lay 
my  plans  well,  and  I  never  swerve  from  them — that's  it.  A 
strong  will  is  the  only  magic.  And  next  to  striking  out  one's 
plans,  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  see  them  well 
accomplished.  This  year,  now,  will  be  the  happiest  of  my 
life,  all  but  the  year  '53,  when  I  came  into  possession  of  the 
Manor,  and  married  Henrietta.  The  last  touch  is  given  to 
the  old  house;  Anthony's  marriage — the  thing  I  had  nearest 
my  heart — is  settled  to  my  entire  satisfaction ;  and  by  and  by 
you  will  be  buying  a  little  wedding-ring  for  Tina's  finger. 
Don't  shake  your  head  in  that  forlorn  way ; — when  I  make 
prophecies  they  generally  come  to  pass.  But  there's  quarter 
after  twelve  striking.  I  must  be  riding  to  the  High  Ash  to 
meet  Markham  about  felling  some  timber.  My  old  oaks  will 
have  to  groan  for  this  wedding,  but 

The  door  burst  open,  and  Caterina,  ghastly  and  panting, 
her  eyes  distended  with  terror,  rushed  in,  threw  her  arms 
round  Sir  Christopher's  neck,  and  gasping  out — "Anthony 
.  .  .  the  Eookery  ...  dead  ...  in  the  Rookery,"  fell 
fainting  on  the  floor. 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  175 

In  a  moment  Sir  Christopher  was  out  of  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Giliil  was  bending  to  raise  Caterinain  his  arms.  As  he  lifted 
her  from  the  ground  he  felt  something  hard  and  heavy  in  her 
pocket.  What  could  it  be?  The  weight  of  it  would  be 
enough  to  hurt  her  as  she  lay.  He  carried  her  to  the  sofa, 
put  his  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  forth  the  dagger. 

Maynard  shuddered.  Did  she  mean  to  kill  herself,  then, 
or  ...  or  ...  a  horrible  suspicion  forced  itself  upon  him. 
"Dead — in  the  Rookery."  He  hated  himself  for  the  thought 
that  prompted  him  to  draw  the  dagger  from  its  sheath.  No! 
there  was  no  trace  of  blood,  and  he  was  ready  to  kiss  the  good 
steel  for  its  innocence.  He  thrust  the  weapon  into  his  own 
pocket ;  he  would  restore  it  as  soon  as  possible  to  its  well- 
known  place  in  the  gallery.  Yet,  why  had  Caterina  taken 
this  dagger?  What  was  it  that  had  happened  in  the  Rook- 
ery? Was  it  only  a  delirious  vision  of  hers? 

He  was  afraid  to  ring — afraid  to  summon  any  one  to  Cate- 
rina's  assistance.  What  might  she  not  say  when  she  awoke 
from  this  fainting-fit?  She  might  be  raving.  He  could  not 
leave  her,  and  yet  he  felt  as  if  he  were  guilty  for  not  follow- 
ing Sir  Christopher  to  see  what  was  the  truth.  It  took  but 
a  moment  to  think  and  feel  all  this,  but  that  moment  seemed 
such  a  long  agony  to  him  that  he  began  to  reproach  himself 
for  letting  it  pass  without  seeking  some  means  of  reviving 
Caterina.  Happily  the  decanter  of  water  on  Sir  Christopher's 
table  was  untouched.  He  would  at  least  try  the  effect  of 
throwing  that  water  over  her.  She  might  revive  without  his 
needing  to  call  any  one  else. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  was  hurrying  at  his  utmost 
speed  toward  the  Rookery ;  his  face,  so  lately  bright  and  con- 
fident, now  agitated  by  a  vague  dread.  The  deep  alarmed 
bark  of  Rupert,  who  ran  by  his  side,  had  struck  the  ear  of 
Mr.  Bates,  then  on  his  way  homeward,  as  something  unwonted, 
and,  hastening  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  he  met  the  Baro- 
net just  as  he  was  approaching  the  entrance  of  the  Rookery. 
Sir  Christopher's  look  was  enough.  Mr.  Bates  said  nothing, 
but  hurried  along  by  his  side,  while  Rupert  dashed  forward 
among  the  dead  leaves  with  his  nose  to  the  ground.  They 
had  scarcely  lost  sight  of  him  a  minute  when  a  change  in  the 


176  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tone  of  liis  bark  told  them  that  he  had  found  something,  and 
in  another  instant  he  was  leaping  back  over  one  of  the  large 
planted  mounds.  They  turned  aside  to  ascend  the  mound, 
Rupert  leading  them ;  the  tumultuous  cawing  of  the  rooks,  the 
very  rustling  of  the  leaves,  as  their  feet  plunged  among  them, 
falling  like  an  evil  omen  on  the  Baronet's  ear. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  mound,  and  had  begun 
to  descend.  Sir  Christopher  saw  something  purple  down  on 
the  path  below  among  the  yellow  leaves.  Rupert^was  already 
beside  it,  but  Sir  Christopher  could  not  move  faster.  A  tremor 
had  taken  hold  of  the  firm  limbs.  Rupert  came  back  and 
licked  the  trembling  hand,  as  if  to  say  "  Courage !  "  and  then 
was  down  again  snuffing  the  body.  Yes,  it  was  a  body  .  .  . 
Anthony's  body.  There  was  the  white  hand  with  its  diamond 
ring  clutching  the  dark  leaves.  His  eyes  were  half  open,  but 
did  not  heed  the  gleam  of  sunlight  that  darted  itself  directly 
on  them  from  between  the  boughs. 

Still  he  might  only  have  fainted ;  it  might  only  be  a  fit. 
Sir  Christopher  knelt  down,  unfastened  the  cravat,  unfastened 
the  waistcoat,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  heart.  It  might  be 
syncope;  it  might  not — it  could  not  be  death.  No!  that 
thought  must  be  kept  far  off. 

"  Go,  Bates,  get  help ;  we'll  carry  him  to  your  cottage. 
Send  some  one  to  the  house  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Warren. 
Bid  them  send  off  for  Dr.  Hart,  and  break  it  to  my  lady  and 
Miss  Assher  that  Anthony  is  ill." 

Mr.  Bates  hastened  away,  and  the  Baronet  was  left  alone 
kneeling  beside  the  body.  The  young  and  supple  limbs,  the 
rounded  cheeks,  the  delicate  ripe  lips,  the  smooth  white 
hands,  were  lying  cold  and  rigid;  and  the  aged  face  was  bend- 
ing over  them  in  silent  anguish ;  the  aged  deep-veined  hands 
were  seeking  with  tremulous  inquiring  touches  for  some 
symptom  that  life  was  not  irrevocably  gone. 

Rupert  was  there  too,  waiting  and  watching ;  licking  first 
the  dead  and  then  the  living  hands ;  then  running  off  on  Mr. 
Bates' s  track  as  if  he  would  follow  and  hasten  his  return,  but 
in  a  moment  turning  back  again,  unable  to  quit  the  scene  of 
his  master's  sorrow. 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  177 


CHAPTER   XV. 

IT  is  a  wonderful  moment,  the  first  time  we  stand  by  one 
who  has  fainted,  and  witness  the  fresh  birth  of  consciousness 
spreading  itself  over  the  blank  features,  like  the  rising  sun- 
light on  the  alpine  summits  that  lay  ghastly  and  dead  under 
the  leaden  twilight.  A  slight  shudder,  and  the  frost-bound 
eyes  recover  their  liquid  light;  for  an  instant  they  show  the 
inward  semi-consciousness  of  an  infant's;  then,  with  a  little 
start,  they  open  wider  and  begin  to  look  ;  the  present  is  visi- 
ble, but  only  as  a  strange  writing,  and  the  interpreter  Memory 
is  not  yet  there. 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  a  trembling  joy  as  this  change  passed  over 
Caterina's  face.  He  bent  over  her,  rubbing  her  chill  hands, 
and  looking  at  her  with  tender  pity  as  her  dark  eyes  opened 
on  him  wonderingly.  He  thought  there  might  be  some  wine 
in  the  dining-room  close  by.  He  left  the  room,  and  Cateriua's 
eyes  turned  toward  the  window — toward  Sir  Christopher's 
chair.  There  was  the  link  at  which  the  chain  of  conscious- 
ness had  snapped,  and  the  events  of  the  morning  were  begin- 
ning to  recur  dimly  like  a  half-remembered  dream,  when 
Maynard  returned  with  some  wine.  He  raised  her,  and  she 
drank  it ;  but  still  she  was  silent,  seeming  lost  in  the  attempt 
to  recover  the  past,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Warren 
appeared  with  looks  that  announced  terrible  tidings.  Mr. 
Gilfil;  dreading  lest  he  should  tell  them  in  Caterina's  pres- 
ence, hurried  toward  him  with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  drew 
him  away  into  the  dining-room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
passage. 

Caterina,  revived  by  the  stimulant,  was  now  recovering  the 
full  consciousness  of  the  scene  in  the  Rookery.  Anthony  was 
lying  there  dead;  she  had  left  him  to  tell  Sir  Christopher;  she 
must  go  and  see  what  they  were  doing  with  him ;  perhaps  he 
was  not  really  dead — only  in  a  trance ;  people  did  fall  into 
trances  sometimes.  While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  telling  Warren  how 
it  would  be  best  to  break  the  news  to  Lady  Cheverel  and  Miss 
Assher,  anxious  himself  to  return  to  Caterina,  the  poor  child 


178  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

had  made  her  way  feebly  to  the  great  entrance- door,  which 
stood  open.  Her  strength  increased  as  she  moved  and  breathed 
the  fresh  air,  and  with  every  increase  of  strength  came  in- 
creased vividness  of  emotion,  increased  yearning  to  be  where 
her  thought  was — in  the  Rookery  with  Anthony.  She  walked 
more  and  more  swiftly,  and  at  last,  gathering  the  artificial 
strength  of  passionate  excitement,  began  to  run. 

But  now  she  heard  the  tread  of  heavy  steps,  and  under  the 
yellow  shade  near  the  wooden  bridge  she  saw  men  slowly 
carrying  something.  Soon  she  was  face  to  face  with  them. 
Anthony  was  no  longer  in  the  Eookery :  they  were  carrying 
him  stretched  on  a  door,  and  there  behind  him  was  Sir  Chris- 
topher, with  the  firmly  set  mouth,  the  deathly  paleness,  and 
the  concentrated  expression  of  suffering  in  the  eye,  which 
mark  the  suppressed  grief  of  the  strong  man.  The  sight  of 
this  face,  on  which  Caterina  had  never  before  beheld  the  signs 
of  anguish,  caused  a  rush  of  new  feeling  which  for  the  moment 
submerged  all  the  rest.  She  went  gently  up  to  him,  put  her 
little  hand  in  his,  and  walked  in  silence  by  his  side.  Sir 
Christopher  could  not  tell  her  to  leave  him,  and  so  she  went 
on  with  that  sad  procession  to  Mr.  Bates's  cottage  in  the  Moss* 
lands,  and  sat  there  in  silence,  waiting  and  watching  to  know 
if  Anthony  were  really  dead. 

She  had  not  yet  missed  the  dagger  from  her  pocket ;  she  had 
not  yet  even  thought  of  it.  At  the  sight  of  Anthony  lying 
dead,  her  nature  had  rebounded  from  its  new  bias  of  resent- 
ment and  hatred  to  the  old  sweet  habit  of  love.  The  earliest 
and  the  longest  has  still  the  mastery  over  us ;  and  the  only 
past  that  linked  itself  with  those  glazed  unconscious  eyes,  was 
the  past  when  they  beamed  on  her  with  tenderness.  She  for- 
got the  interval  of  wrong  and  jealousy  and  hatred — all  his  cru- 
elty, and  all  her  thoughts  of  revenge — as  the  exile  forgets  the 
stormy  passage  that  lay  between  home  and  happiness  and  the 
dreary  land  in  which  he  finds  himself  desolate. 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  179 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

BEFORE  night  all  hope  was  gone.  Dr.  Hart  had  said  it  was 
death;  Anthony's  body  had  been  carried  to  the  house,  and 
every  one  there  knew  the  calamity  that  had  fallen  on  them. 

Caterina  had  been  questioned  by  Dr.  Hart,  and  had  answered 
briefly  that  she  found  Anthony  lying  iii  the  Rookery.  That 
she  should  have  been  walking  there  just  at  that  time  was  not 
a  coincidence  to  raise  conjectures  in  any  one  besides  Mr.  Gilfil. 
Except  in  answering  this  question,  she  had  not  broken  her 
silence.  She  sat  mute  in  a  corner  of  the  gardener's  kitchen, 
shaking  her  head  when  Maynard  entreated  her  to  return  with 
him,  and  apparently  unable  to  think  of  anything  but  the  pos- 
sibility that  Anthony  might  revive,  until  she  saw  them  carry- 
ing away  the  body  to  the  house.  Then  she  followed  by  Sir 
Christopher's  side  again,  so  quietly,  that  even  Dr.  Hart  did 
not  object  to  her  presence. 

It  was  decided  to  lay  the  body  in  the  library  until  after  the 
coroner's  inquest  to-morrow;  and  when  Caterina  saw  the  door 
finally  closed,  she  turned  up  the  gallery  stairs  on  her  way  to 
her  own  room,  the  place  where  she  felt  at  home  with  her  sor- 
rows. It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  in  the  gallery  since 
that  terrible  moment  in  the  morning,  and  now  the  spot  and 
the  objects  around  began  to  reawaken  her  half-stunned  mem- 
ory. The  armor  was  no  longer  glittering  in  the  sunlight,  but 
there  it  hung  dead  and  sombre  above  the  cabinet  from  which 
she  had  taken  the  dagger.  Yes !  now  it  all  came  back  to  her 
— all  the  wretchedness  and  all  the  sin.  But  where  was  the 
dagger  now?  She  felt  in  her  pocket;  it  was  not  there.  Could 
it  have  been  her  fancy — all  that  about  the  dagger?  She 
looked  in  the  cabinet ;  it  was  not  there.  Alas !  no ;  it  could 
not  have  been  her  fancy,  and  she  was  guilty  of  that  wicked- 
ness. But  where  could  the  dagger  be  now?  Could  it  have 
fallen  out  of  her  pocket?  She  heard  steps  ascending  the 
stairs,  and  hurried  on  to  her  room,  where,  kneeling  by  the 
bed,  and  burying  her  face  to  shut  out  the  hateful  light,  she 
tried  to  recall  every  feeling  and  incident  of  the  morning. 


180  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

It  all  came  back ;  everything  Anthony  had  done,  and  every- 
thing she  had  felt  for  the  last  month — for  many  months — ever 
since  that  June  evening  when  he  had  last  spoken  to  her  in  the 
gallery.  She  looked  back  on  her  storms  of  passion,  her  jeal- 
ousy and  hatred  of  Miss  Assher,  her  thoughts  of  revenge  on 
Anthony.  Oh  how  wicked  she  had  been!  It  was  she  who 
had  been  sinning ;  it  was  she  who  had  driven  him  to  do  and 
say  those  things  that  had  made  her  so  angry.  And  if  he  had 
wronged  her,  what  had  she  been  on  the  verge  of  doing  to  him? 
She  was  too  wicked  ever  to  be  pardoned.  She  would  like  to 
confess  how  wicked  she  had  been,  that  they  might  punish  her; 
she  would  like  to  humble  herself  to  the  dust  before  every  one 
— before  Miss  Assher  even.  Sir  Christopher  would  send  her 
away — would  never  see  her  again,  if  he  knew  all;  and  she 
would  be  happier  to  be  punished  and  frowned  on,  than  to  be 
treated  tenderly  while  she  had  that  guilty  secret  in  her  breast. 
But  then,  if  Sir  Christopher  were  to  know  all,  it  would  add  to 
his  sorrow,  and  make  him  more  wretched  than  ever.  No !  she 
could  not  confess  it — she  should  have  to  tell  about  Anthony. 
But  she  could  not  stay  at  the  Manor;  she  must  go  away;  she 
could  not  bear  Sir  Christopher's  eye,  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  all  these  things  that  reminded  her  of  Anthony  and  of  her 
sin.  Perhaps  she  should  die  soon;  she  felt  very  feeble ;  there 
could  not  be  much  life  in  her.  She  would  go  away  and  live 
humbly,  and  pray  to  God  to  pardon  her,  and  let  her  die. 

The  poor  child  never  thought  of  suicide.  No  sox>ner  was 
the  storm  of  anger  passed  than  the  tenderness  and  timidity  of 
her  nature  returned,  and  she  could  do  nothing  but  love  and 
mourn.  Her  inexperience  prevented  her  from  imagining  the 
consequences  of  her  disappearance  from  the  Manor;  she  fore- 
saw none  of  the  terrible  details  of  alarm  and  distress  and 
search  that  must  ensue.  "They  will  think  I  am  dead,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  and  by  and  by  they  will  forget  me,  and  May- 
nard  will  get  happy  again,  and  love  some  one  else." 

She  was  roused  from  her  absorption  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Bellamy  was  there.  She  had  come  by  Mr.  Gilfil's  re- 
quest to  see  how  Miss  Sarti  was,  and  to  bring  her  some  food 
and  wine. 

"You  look  sadly,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  housekeeper,  "an' 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  181 

re  all  of  a  quake  wi'  cold.  Get  you  to  bed,  now  do. 
.Martha  shall  come  an'  warm  it,  an'  light  your  tire.  See  now, 
here's  some  nice  arrowroot,  wi'  a  drop  o'  wine  in  it.  Take 
that,  an'  it'll  warm  you.  I  must  go  down  again,  for  I  can't 
awhile  to  stay.  There's  so  many  things  to  see  to ;  an'  Miss 
Assher's  in  hysterics  constant,  an'  her  maid's  ill  i'  bed — a 
poor  creachy  thing — an'  Mrs.  Sharp's  wanted  every  minute. 
But  I'll  send  Martha  up,  an'  do  you  get  ready  to  go  to  bed, 
there's  a  dear  child,  an'  take  care  o'  yourself." 

"Thank  you,  dear  mammy,"  said  Tina,  kissing  the  little 
old  woman's  wrinkled  cheek;  "I  shall  eat  the  arrowroot,  and 
don't  trouble  about  me  any  more  to-night.  I  shall  do  very 
well  when  Martha  has  lighted  my  fire.  Tell  Mr.  Gilfil  I'm 
better.  I  shall  go  to  bed  by  and  by,  so  don't  you  come  up 
again,  because  you  may  only  disturb  me." 

"  Well,  well,  take  care  o'  yourself,  there's  a  good  child,  an' 
God  send  you  may  sleep." 

Caterina  took  the  arrowroot  quite  eagerly,  while  Martha  was 
lighting  her  fire.  She  wanted  to  get  strength  for  her  journey, 
and  she  kept  the  plate  of  biscuits  by  her  that  she  might  put 
some  in  her  pocket.  Her  whole  mind  was  now  bent  on  going 
away  from  the  Manor,  and  she  was  thinking  of  all  the  ways 
and  means  her  little  life's  experience  could  suggest. 

It  was  dusk  now ;  she  must  wait  till  early  dawn,  for  she 
was  too  timid  to  go  away  in  the  dark,  but  she  must  make  her 
escape  before  any  one  was  up  in  the  house.  There  would  be 
people  watching  Anthony  in  the  library,  but  she  could  make 
her  way  out  of  a  small  door  leading  into  the  garden,  against 
the  drawing-room  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

She  laid  her  cloak,  bonnet,  and  veil  ready;  then  she  lighted 
a  candle,  opened  her  desk,  and  took  out  the  broken  portrait 
wrapped  in  paper.  She  folded  it  again  in  two  little  notes  of 
Anthony's,  written  in  pencil,  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom. 
There  was  the  little  china  box,  too — Dorcas's  present,  the 
pearl  ear-rings,  and  a  silk  purse,  with  fifteen  seven-shilling 
pieces  in  it,  the  presents  Sir  Christopher  had  made  her  on  her 
birthday,  ever  since  she  had  been  at  the  Manor.  Should  she 
take  the  ear-rings  and  the  seven-shilling  pieces?  She  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  them ;  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  some  of 


182  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Sir  Christopher's  love  in  them.  She  would  like  them  to  be 
buried  with  her.  She  fastened  the  little  round  ear-rings  in 
her  ears,  and  put  the  purse  with  Dorcas's  box  in  her  pocket. 
She  had  another  purse  there,  and  she  took  it  out  to  count  her 
money,  for  she  would  never  spend  her  seven-shilling  pieces. 
She  had  a  guinea  and  eight  shillings;  that  would  be  plenty. 

So  now  she  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  morning,  afraid  to  lay 
herself  on  the  bed  lest  she  should  sleep  too  long.  If  she  could 
but  see  Anthony  once  more  and  kiss  his  cold  forehead !  But 
that  could  not  be.  She  did  not  deserve  it.  She  must  go  away 
from  him,  away  from  Sir  Christopher,  and  Lady  Cheverel, 
and  Maynard,  and  everybody  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  and 
thought  her  good  while  she  was  so  wicked. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SOME  of  Mrs.  Sharp's  earliest  thoughts,  the  next  morning, 
were  given  to  Caterina,  whom  she  had  not  been  able  to  visit 
the  evening  before,  and  whom,  from  a  nearly  equal  mixture  of 
affection  and  self-importance,  she  did  not  at  all  like  resigning 
to  Mrs.  Bellamy's  care.  At  half-past  eight  o'clock  she  went 
up  to  Tina's  room,  bent  on  benevolent  dictation  as  to  doses 
and  diet  and  lying  in  bed.  But  on  opening  the  door  she 
found  the  bed  smooth  and  empty.  Evidently  it  had  not  been 
slept  in.  What  could  this  mean?  Had  she  sat  up  all  night, 
and  was  she  gone  out  to  walk?  The  poor  thing's  head  might 
be  touched  by  what  had  happened  yesterday;  it  was  such  a 
shock— finding  Captain  Wybrow  in  that  way;  she  was  per- 
haps gone  out  of  her  mind.  Mrs.  Sharp  looked  anxiously  in 
the  place  where  Tina  kept  her  hat  and  cloak;  they  were  not 
there,  so  that  she  had  had  at  least  the  presence  of  mind  to  put 
them.  on.  Still  the  good  woman  felt  greatly  alarmed,  and  has- 
tened away  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil,  who,  she  knew,  was  in  his 
study. 

"Mr.  Gilfil,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  "  my  mind  misgives  me  dreadful  about  Miss 
Sarti." 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  183 

"  What  is  it?  "  said  poor  Maynard,  with  a  horrible  fear  that 
Caterina  had  betrayed  something  about  the  dagger. 

"  She's  not  in  her  room,  an'  her  bed's  not  been  slept  in  this 
night,  an'  her  hat  an'  cloak's  gone." 

For  a  minute  or  two  Mr.  Gilfil  was  unable  to  speak.  He 
felt  sure  the  worst  had  come :  Caterina  had  destroyed  herself. 
The  strong  man  suddenly  looked  so  ill  and  helpless  that  Mrs. 
Sharp  began  to  be  frightened  at  the  effect  of  her  abruptness. 

"Oh,  sir,  I'm  grieved  to  my  heart  to  shock  you  so;  but  I 
didn't  know  who  else  to  go  to." 

"  No,  no,  you  were  quite  right. " 

He  gathered  some  strength  from  his  very  despair.  It  was 
all  over,  and  he  had  nothing  now  to  do  but  to  suffer  and  to 
help  the  suffering.  He  went  on  in  a  firmer  voice — 

"  Be  sure  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  it  to  any  one.  We 
must  not  alarm  Lady  Cheverel  and  Sir  Christopher.  Miss 
Sarti  may  be  only  walking  in  the  garden.  She  was  terribly 
excited  by  what  she  saw  yesterday,  and  perhaps  was  unable 
to  lie  down  from  restlessness.  Just  go  quietly  through  the 
empty  rooms,  and  see  whether  she  is  in  the  house.  I  will  go 
and  look  for  her  in  the  grounds." 

He  went  down,  and,  to  avoid  giving  any  alarm  in  the  house, 
walked  at  once  toward  the  Mosslands  in  search  of  Mr.  Bates, 
whom  he  met  returning  from  his  breakfast.  To  the  gardener 
he  confided  his  fear  about  Caterina,  assigning  as  a  reason  for 
this  fear  the  probability  that  the  shock  she  had  undergone 
yesterday  had  unhinged  her  mind,  and  begging  him  to  send 
men  in  search  of  her  through  the  gardens  and  park,  and  in- 
quire if  she  had  been  seen  at  the  lodges ;  and  if  she  were  not 
found  or  heard  of  in  this  way,  to  lose  no  time  in  dragging  the 
waters  round  the  Manor. 

"God  forbid  it  should  be  so,  Bates,  but  we  shall  be  the 
easier  for  having  searched  everywhere." 

"  Troost  to  mae,  troost  to  mae,  Mr.  Gilfil.  Eh!  but  I'd  ha' 
worked  for  day-wage  all  the  rest  o'  my  life,  rether  than  any- 
thin'  should  ha'  happened  to  her." 

The  good  gardener,  in  deep  distress,  strode  away  to  the  sta- 
bles that  he  might  send  the  grooms  on  horseback  through  the 
park. 


184  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Mr.  Gilfil's  next  thought  was  to  search  the  Rookery :  she 
might  be  haunting  the  scene  of  Captain  Wybrow's  death.  He 
went  hastily  over  every  mound,  looked  round  every  large  tree, 
and  followed  every  winding  of  the  walks.  In  reality  he  had 
little  hope  of  finding  her  there ;  but  the  bare  possibility  fenced 
off  for  a  time  the  fatal  conviction  that  Caterina's  body  would 
be  found  in  the  water.  When  the  Rookery  had  been  searched 
in  vain,  he  walked  fast  to  the  border  of  the  little  stream  that 
bounded  one  side  of  the  grounds.  The  stream  was  almost 
everywhere  hidden  among  trees,  and  there  was  oue  place 
where  it  was  broader  and  deeper  than  elsewhere — she  would 
be  more  likely  to  come  to  that  spot  than  to  the  pool.  He  hur- 
ried along  with  strained  eyes,  his  imagination  continually  cre- 
ating what  he  dreaded  to  see. 

There  is  something  white  behind  that  overhanging  bough. 
His  knees  tremble  under  him.  He  seems  to  see  part  of  her 
dress  caught  on  a  branch,  and  her  dear  dead  face  upturned. 
0  God,  give  strength  to  thy  creature,  on  whom  thou  hast  laid 
this  great  agony !  He  is  nearly  up  to  the  bough,  and  the  white 
object  is  moving.  It  is  a  waterfowl,  that  spreads  its  wings 
and  flies  away  screaming.  He  hardly  knows  whether  it  is  a 
relief  or  a  disappointment  that  she  is  not  there.  The  convic- 
tion that  she  is  dead  presses  its  cold  weight  upon  him  none 
the  less  heavily. 

As  he  reached  the  great  pool  in  front  of  the  Manor,  he  saw 
Mr.  Bates,  with  a  group  of  men  already  there,  preparing  for 
the  dreadful  search  which  could  only  displace  his  vague  de- 
spair by  a  definite  horror;  for  the  gardener,  in  his  restless 
anxiety,  had  been  unable  to  defer  this  until  other  means  of 
search,  had  proved  vain.  The  pool  was  not  now  laughing 
with  sparkles  among  the  water-lilies.  It  looked  black  and 
cruel  under  the  sombre  sky,  as  if  its  cold  depths  held  re- 
lentlessly all  the  murdered  hope  and  joy  of  Maynard  Gilfil's 
life. 

Thoughts  of  the  sad  consequences  for  others  as  well  as  him- 
self were  crowding  on  his  mind.  The  blinds  and  shutters 
were  all  closed  in  front  of  the  Manor,  and  it  was  not  likely 
that  Sir  Christopher  would  be  aware  of  anything  that  was 
j  ing  outside;  but  Mr.  Gilfil  felt  that  Caterina's  disappear- 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  185 

ance  could  not  long  be  concealed  from  him.  The  coroner's 
inquest  would  be  held  shortly ;  she  would  be  inquired  for,  and 
then  it  would  be  inevitable  that  the  Baronet  should  know  all. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AT  twelve  o'clock,  when  all  search  and  inquiry  had  been  in 
vain,  and  the  coroner  was  expected  every  moment,  Mr.  Gilfil 
could  no  longer  defer  the  hard  duty  of  revealing  this  fresh 
calamity  to  Sir  Christopher,  who  must  otherwise  have  it  dis- 
covered to  him  abruptly. 

The  Baronet  was  seated  in  his  dressing-room,  where  the 
dark  window-curtains  were  drawn  so  as  to  admit  only  a  som- 
bre light.  It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Gilfil  had  had  an  inter- 
view with  him  this  morning,  and  he  was  struck  to  see  how  a 
single  day  and  night  of  grief  had  aged  the  fine  old  man.  The 
lines  in  his  brow  and  about  his  mouth  were  deepened;  his 
complexion  looked  dull  and  withered;  there  was  a  swollen 
ridge  under  his  eyes ;  and  the  eyes  themselves,  which  used  to 
cast  so  keen  a  glance  on  the  present,  had  the  vacant  expression 
which  tells  that  vision  is  no  longer  a  sense,  but  a  memory. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Maynard,  who  pressed  it,  and  sat 
do\vu  beside  him  in  silence.  Sir  Christopher's  heart  began  to 
swell  at  this  unspoken  sympathy ;  the  tears  would  rise,  would 
roll  in  great  drops  down  his  cheeks.  The  first  tears  he  had 
shed  since  boyhood  were  for  Anthony. 

Maynard  felt  as  if  his  tongue  were  glued  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth.  He  could  not  speak  first :  he  must  wait  until  Sir 
Christopher  said  something  which  might  lead  on  to  the  cruel 
words  that  must  be  spoken. 

At  last  the  Baronet  mastered  himself  enough  to  say,  "  I'm 
very  weak,  Maynard — God  help  me!  I  didn't  think  anything 
would  unman  me  in  this  way;  but  I'd  built  everything  on  that 
lad.  Perhaps  I've  been  wrong  in  not  forgiving  my  sister. 
She  lost  one  of  her  sons  a  little  while  ago.  I've  been  too 
proud  and  obstinate." 

"We  can   hardly  learn   humility   and   tenderness   enough 


186  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

except  by  suffering, "  said  Maynard ;  "  and  God  sees  we  are 
in  need  of  suffering,  for  it  is  falling  more  and  more  heavily  on 
us.  We  have  a  new  trouble  this  morning." 

"  Tina?  "  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  anxiously — "  is 
Tina  ill?  " 

"  I  am  in  dreadful  uncertainty  about  her.  She  was  very 
much  agitated  yesterday — and  with  her  delicate  health — I  am 
afraid  to  think  what  turn  the  agitation  may  have  taken." 

"  Is  she  delirious,  poor  dear  little  one?  " 

"  God  only  knows  how  she  is.  We  are  unable  to  find  her. 
When  Mrs.  Sharp  went  up  to  her  room  this  morning,  it  was 
empty.  She  had  not  been  in  bed.  Her  hat  and  cloak  were 
gone.  I  have  had  search  made  for  her  everywhere — in  the 
house  and  garden,  in  the  park,  and — in  the  water.  No  one 
has  seen  her  since  Martha  went  up  to  light  her  fire  at  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening." 

While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  speaking,  Sir  Christopher's  eyes, 
which  were  eagerly  turned  on  Mm,  recovered  some  of  their 
old  keenness,  and  some  sudden  painful  emotion,  as  at  a  new 
thought,  flitted  rapidly  across  his  already  agitated  face,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  dark  cloud  over  the  waves.  When  the  pause  came, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Gilfil' s  arm,  and  said  in  a  lower 
voice — 

"  Maynard,  did  that  poor  thing  love  Anthony?  " 

"She  did." 

Maynard  hesitated  after  these  words,  struggling  between  his 
reluctance  to  inflict  a  yet  deeper  wound  on  Sir  Christopher, 
and  his  determination  that  no  injustice  should  be  done  to  Cat- 
erina.  Sir  Christopher's  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  him  in  sol- 
emn inquiry,  and  his  own  sunk  toward  the  ground,  while  he 
tried  to  find  the  words  that  would  tell  the  truth  least  cruelly. 

"  You  must  not  have  any  wrong  thoughts  about  Tina, "  he 
said  at  length.  "I  must  tell  you  now,  for  her  sake,  what 
nothing  but  this  should  ever  have  caused  to  pass  my  lips. 
Captain  Wybrow  won  her  affections  by  attentions  which,  in 
his  position,  he  was  bound  not  to  show  her.  Before  his  mar- 
riage was  talked  of,  he  had  behaved  to  her  like  a  lover." 

Sir  Christopher  relaxed  his  hold  of  Maynard's  arm,  and 
looked  away  from  him.  He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  evi- 


MR.    GILFIL'S   LOVE-STORY.  187 

dently  attempting  to  master  himself,  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak 
calmly. 

"I  must  see  Henrietta  immediately,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
something  of  his  old  sharp  decision;  "  she  must  know  all;  but 
we  must  keep  it  from  every  one  else  as  far  as  possible.  My 
dear  boy,"  he  continued  in  a  kinder  tone,  "the  heaviest  bur- 
then has  fallen  on  you.  But  we  may  find  her  yet;  we  must 
not  despair :  there  has  not  been  time  enough  for  us  to  be  cer- 
tain. Poor  dear  little  one !  God  help  me!  I  thought  I  saw 
everything,  and  was  stone-blind  all  the  while." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE  sad  slow  week  was  gone  by  at  last.  At  the  coroner's 
inquest  a  verdict  of  sudden  death  had  been  pronounced.  Dr. 
Hart,  acquainted  with  Captain  Wybrow's  previous  state  of 
health,  had  given  his  opinion  that  death  had  been  imminent 
from  long-established  disease  of  the  heart,  though  it  had  prob- 
ably been  accelerated  by  some  unusual  emotion.  Miss  Assher 
was  the  only  person  who  positively  knew  the  motive  that  had 
led  Captain  Wy  brow  to  the  Rookery;  but  she  had  not  men- 
tioned Caterina's  name,  and  all  painful  details  or  inquiries 
were  studiously  kept  from  her.  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Sir  Christo- 
pher, however,  knew  enough  to  conjecture  that  the  fatal  agita- 
tion was  due  to  an  appointed  meeting  with  Caterina. 

All  search  and  inquiry  after  her  had  been  fruitless,  and 
were  the  more  likely  to  be  so  because  they  were  carried  on 
under  the  prepossession  that  she  had  committed  suicide.  No 
one  noticed  the  absence  of  the  trifles  she  had  taken  from  her 
desk ;  no  one  knew  of  the  likeness,  or  that  she  had  hoarded  her 
seven-shilling  pieces,  and  it  was  not  remarkable  that  she 
should  have  happened  to  be  wearing  the  pearl  ear-rings.  She 
had  left  the  house,  they  thought,  taking  nothing  with  her ;  it 
seemed  impossible  she  could  have  gone  far;  and  she  must 
have  been  in  a  state  of  mental  excitement,  that  made  it  too 
probable  she  had  only  gone  to  seek  relief  in  death.  The  same 
places  within  three  or  four  miles  of  the  Manor  were  searched 


188  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

again  and  again — every  pond,  every  ditch  in  the  neighborhood 
was  examined. 

Sometimes  Maynard  thought  that  death  might  have  come  on 
unsought,  from  cold  and  exhaustion ;  and  not  a  day  passed  but 
he  wandered  through  the  neighboring  woods,  turning  up  the 
heaps  of  dead  leaves,  as  if  it  were  possible  her  dear  body  could 
be  hidden  there.  Then  another  horrible  thought  recurred,  and 
before  each  night  came  he  had  been  again  through  all  the  un- 
inhabited rooms  of  the  house,  to  satisfy  himself  once  more  that 
she  was  not  hidden  behind  some  cabinet,  or  door,  or  curtain — 
that  he  should  not  find  her  there  with  madness  in  her  eyes, 
looking  and  looking,  and  yet  not  seeing  him. 

But  at  last  those  five  long  days  and  nights  were  at  an  end, 
the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  carriages  were  returning  through 
the  park.  When  they  had  set  out,  a  heavy  rain  was  falling; 
but  now  the  clouds  were  breaking  up,  and  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
was  sparkling  among  the  dripping  boughs  under  which  they 
were  passing.  This  gleam  fell  upon  a  man  on  horseback  who 
was  jogging  slowly  along,  and  whom  Mr.  Gilfil  recognized,  in 
spite  of  diminished  rotundity,  as  Daniel  Knott,  the  coachman 
who  had  married  the  rosy-cheeked  Dorcas  ten  j^ears  before. 

Every  new  incident  suggested  the  same  thought  to  Mr.  Gil- 
fil; and  his  eye  no  sooner  fell  on  Knott  than  he  said  to  him- 
self, "Can  he  be  come  to  tell  us  anything  about  Caterina?" 
Then  he  remembered  that  Caterina  had  been  very  fond  of  Dor- 
cas, and  that  she  always  had  some  present  ready  to  send  her 
when  Knott  paid  an  occasional  visit  to  the  Manor.  Could 
Tina  have  gone  to  Dorcas?  But  his  heart  sank  again  as  he 
thought,  very  likely  Knott  had  only  come  because  he  had 
heard  of  Captain  Wy brow's  death,  and  wanted  to  know  how 
his  old  master  had  borne  the  blow. 

As  soon  as  the  carriage  reached  the  house,  he  went  up  to  his 
study  and  walked  about  nervously,  longing,  but  afraid,  to  go 
down  and  speak  to  Knott,  lest  his  faint  hope  should  be  dissi- 
pated. Any  one  looking  at  that  face,  usually  so  full  of  calm 
good-will,  would  have  seen  that  the  last  week's  suffering  had 
left  deep  traces.  By  day  he  had  been  riding  or  wandering 
incessantly,  either  searching  for  Caterina  himself,  or  directing 
inquiries  to  be  made  by  others.  By  night  he  had  not  known 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  189 

sleep — only  intermittent  dozing,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
finding  Caterina  dead,  and  woke  up  with  a  start  from  this  un- 
real agony  to  the  real  anguish  of  believing  that  he  should  see 
her  no  more.  The  clear  gray  eyes  looked  sunken  and  restless, 
the  full  careless  lips  had  a  strange  tension  about  them,  and 
the  brow,  formerly  so  smooth  and  open,  was  contracted  as  if 
with  pain.  He  had  not  lost  the  object  of  a  few  months'  pas- 
sion ;  he  had  lost  the  being  who  was  bound  up  with  his  power 
of  loving,  as  the  brook  we  played  by  or  the  flowers  we  gath- 
ered iii  childhood  are  bound  up  with  our  sense  of  beauty. 
Love  meant  nothing  for  him  but  to  love  Caterina.  For  years, 
the  thought  of  her  had  been  present  in  everything,  like  the  air 
and  the  light ;  and  now  she  was  gone,  it  seemed  as  if  all  pleas- 
ure had  lost  its  vehicle :  the  sky,  the  earth,  the  daily  ride,  the 
daily  talk  might  be  there,  but  the  loveliness  and  the  joy  that 
were  in  them  had  gone  forever. 

Presently,  as  he  still  paced  backwards  and  forwards,  he 
heard  steps  along  the  corridor,  and  there  was  a  knock  at  his 
door.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said  "  Come  in, "  and  the  rush 
of  renewed  hope  was  hardly  distinguishable  from  pain  when 
he  saw  Warren  enter  with  Daniel  Knott  behind  him. 

"  Knott  is  come,  sir,  with  news  of  Miss  Sarti.  I  thought  it 
best  to  bring  him  to  you  first." 

Mr.  Gilfil  could  not  help  going  up  to  the  old  coachman  and 
wringing  his  hand ;  but  he  was  unable  to  speak,  and  only  mo- 
tioned to  him  to  take  a  chair,  while  Warren  left  the  room. 
He  hung  upon  Daniel's  moon-face,  and  listened  to  his  small 
piping  voice,  with  the  same  solemn  yearning  expectation  with 
which  he  would  have  given  ear  to  the  most  awful  messenger 
from  the  land  of  shades. 

"  It  war  Dorkis,  sir,  would  hev  me  come ;  but  we  knowed 
nothin'  o'  what's  happened  at  the  Manor.  She's  frightened 
out  on  her  wits  about  Miss  Sarti,  an'  she  would  hev  me  saddle 
Blackbird  this  mornin',  an'  leave  the  ploughing  to  come  an' 
let  Sir  Christifer  an'  my  lady  know.  P'raps  you've  heared, 
sir,  we  don't  keep  the  Cross  Keys  at  Sloppeter  now ;  a  uncle  o' 
mine  died  three  'ear  ago,  an*  left  me  a  leggicy.  He  was  bailiff 
to  Squire  Ramble,  as  hed  them  there  big  farms  on  his  hans; 
an'  so  we  took  a  little  farm  o'  forty  acres  or  thereabouts,  becos 


190  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Dorkis  didn't  like  the  public  when  she  got  moithered  wi'  chil- 
dren. As  pritty  a  place  as  iver  you  see,  sir,  wi'  water  at  the 
back  convenent  for  the  cattle. " 

"  For  God's  sake,"  said  Maynard,  "tell  me  what  it  is  about 
Miss  Sarti.  Don't  stay  to  tell  me  anything  else  now." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Knott,  rather  frightened  by  the  parson's 
vehemence,  "  she  come  t'  our  house  i'  the  carrier's  cart  o' 
Wednesday,  when  it  was  welly  nine  o'clock  at  night;  and 
Dorkis  run  out,  for  she  beared  the  cart  stop,  an'  Miss  Sarti 
throwed  her  arms  roun'  Dorkis's  neck  an'  says,  '  Tek  me  in, 
Dorkis,  tek  me  in,'  an'  went  off  into  a  swoond,  like.  An' 
Dorkis  calls  out  to  me, — '  Dannel, '  she  calls — an'  I  run  out 
and  carried  the  young  miss  in,  an'  she  come  roun'  arter  a 
bit,  an'  opened  her  eyes,  and  Dorkis  got  her  to  drink  a  spoon- 
ful o'  rum-an'-water — we've  got  some  capital  rum  as  we 
brought  from  the  Cross  Keys,  and  Dorkis  won't  let  nobody 
drink  it.  She  says  she  keeps  it  for  sickness;  but  for  my 
part,  I  think  it's  a  pity  to  drink  good  rum  when  your  mouth's 
out  o'  taste;  you  may  just  as  well  hev  doctor's  stuff.  How- 
ever, Dorkis  got  her  to  bed,  an'  there  she's  lay  iver  sin', 
stoopid  like,  an'  niver  speaks,  an'  on'y  teks  little  bits  an' 
sups  when  Dorkis  coaxes  her.  An'  we  begun  to  be  fright- 
ened, and  couldn't  think  what  had  made  her  come  away  from 
the  Manor,  and  Dorkis  was  afeared  there  was  summat  wrong. 
So  this  mornin'  she  could  hold  no  longer,  an'  would  hev  no 
nay  but  I  must  come  an'  see;  an'  so  I've  rode  twenty  mile 
upo'  Blackbird,  as  thinks  all  the  while  he's  a-ploughin',  an' 
turns  sharp  roun',  every  thirty  yards,  as  if  he  was  at  the  end 
of  a  furrow.  I've  hed  a  sore  time  wi'  him,  I  can  tell  you,  sir." 

"  God  bless  you,  Knott,  for  coming ! "  said  Mr.  Gilfil, 
wringing  the  old  coachman's  hand  again.  "  Now  go  down  and 
have  something  and  rest  yourself.  You  will  stay  here  to- 
night, and  by  and  by  I  shall  come  to  you  to  learn  the  nearest 
way  to  your  house.  I  shall  get  ready  to  ride  there  immedi- 
ately, when  I  have  spoken  to  Sir  Christopher." 

In  an  hour  from  that  time  Mr.  Gilfil  was  galloping  on  a 
stout  mare  toward  the  little  muddy  village  of  Callam,  five 
miles  beyond  Sloppeter.  Once  more  he  saw  some  gladness  in 
the  afternoon  sunlight;  once  more  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  191 

hedgerow  trees  flying  past  him,  and  to  be  conscious  of  a  "good 
seat "  while  his  black  Kitty  bounded  beneath  him,  and  the 
air  whistled  to  the  rhythm  of  her  pace.  Caterina  was  not 
dead ;  he  had  found  her ;  his  love  and  tenderness  and  long- 
suffering  seemed  so  strong,  they  must  recall  her  to  life  and 
happiness.  After  that  week  of  despair,  the  rebound  was  so 
violent  that  it  carried  his  hopes  at  once  as  far  as  the  utmost 
mark  they  had  ever  reached.  Caterina  would  come  to  love 
him  at  last;  she  would  be  his.  They  had  been  carried 
through  all  that  dark  and  weary  way  that  she  might  know  the 
depth  of  his  love.  How  he  would  cherish  her — his  little  bird 
with  the  timid  bright  eye,  and  the  sweet  throat  that  trembled 
with  love  and  music !  She  would  nestle  against  him,  and  the 
poor  little  breast  which  had  been  so  ruffled  and  bruised  should 
be  safe  for  evermore.  In  the  love  of  a  brave  and  faithful  man 
there  is  always  a  strain  of  maternal  tenderness ;  he  gives  out 
again  those  beams  of  protecting  fondness  which  were  shed  on 
him  as  he  lay  on  his  mother's  knee. 

It  was  twilight  as  he  entered  the  village  of  Callam,  and, 
asking  a  homeward-bound  laborer  the  way  to  Daniel  Knott's, 
learned  that  it  was  by  the  church,  which  showed  its  stumpy 
ivy -clad  spire  on  a  slight  elevation  of  ground;  a  useful  addi- 
tion to  the  means  of  identifying  that  desirable  homestead 
afforded  by  Daniel's  description — "  the  prittiest  place  iver  you 
see  " — though  a  small  cow-yard  full  of  excellent  manure,  and 
leading  right  up  to  the  door,  without  any  frivolous  interrup- 
tion from  garden  or  railing,  might  perhaps  have  been  enough 
to  make  that  description  unmistakably  specific. 

Mr.  Gilfil  had  no  sooner  reached  the  gate  leading  into  the 
cow-yard,  than  he  was  descried  by  a  flaxen-haired  lad  of  nine, 
prematurely  invested  with  the  toga  virilis,  or  smock-frock, 
who  ran  forward  to  let  in  tho  unusual  visitor.  In  a  moment 
Dorcas  was  at  the  door,  the  roses  on  her  cheeks  apparently  all 
the  redder  for  the  three  pair  of  cheeks  which  formed  a  group 
round  her,  and  for  the  very  fat  baby  who  stared  in  her  arms, 
and  sucked  a  long  crust  with  calm  relish. 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Gilfil,  sir?  "  said  Dorcas,  courtesying  low  as  he 
made  his  way  through  the  damp  straw,  after  tying  up  his 
horse. 


192  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Yes,  Dorcas;  I'm  grown  out  of  your  knowledge.  How  is 
Miss  Sarti?  " 

"  Just  for  all  the  world  the  same,  sir,  as  I  suppose  Dannel's 
told  you;  for  I  reckon  you've  come  from  the  Manor,  though 
you're  come  uncommon  quick,  to  be  sure." 

"  Yes,  he  got  to  the  Manor  about  one  o'clock,  and  I  set  off 
as  soon  as  I  could.  She's  not  worse,  is  she?  " 

"No  change,  sir,  for  better  or  wuss.  Will  you  please  to 
walk  in,  sir?  She  lies  there  takin'  no  notice  o'  nothin',  no 
more  nor  a  baby  as  is  on'y  a  week  old,  an'  looks  at  me  as 
blank  as  if  she  didn't  know  me.  Oh  what  can  it  be,  Mr. 
Gilfil?  How  come  she  to  leave  the  Manor?  How's  his  honor 
an'  my  lady?" 

"  In  great  trouble,  Dorcas.  Captain  Wybrow,  Sir  Christo- 
pher's nephew,  you  know,  has  died  suddenly.  Miss  Sarti 
found  him  lying  dead,  and  I  think  the  shock  has  affected  her 
mind." 

"Eh,  dear!  that  fine  young  gentleman  as  was  to  be  th'  heir, 
as  Dannel  told  me  about.  I  remember  seein'  him  when  he 
was  a  little  un,  a-visitin'  at  the  Manor.  Well-a-day,  what  a 
grief  to  his  honor  and  my  lady.  But  that  poor  Miss  Tina — 
an'  she  found  him  a-lyin'  dead?  Oh,  dear,  oh  dear!  " 

Dorcas  had  led  the  way  into  the  best  kitchen,  as  charming 
a  room  as  best  kitchens  used  to  be  in  farmhotises  which  had 
no  parlors — the  fire  reflected  in  a  bright  row  of  pewter  plates 
and  dishes;  the  sand-scoured  deal  tables  so  clean  you  longed 
to  stroke  them ;  the  salt-coffer  in  one  chimney-corner,  and  a 
three-cornered  chair  in  the  other,  the  walls  behind  handsomely 
tapestried  with  flitches  of  bacon,  and  the  ceiling  ornamented 
with  pendent  hams. 

"Sit  ye  down,  sir — do,"  said  Dorcas,  moving  the  three-cor- 
nered chair,  "  an'  let  me  get  you  somethin'  after  your  long 
journey.  Here,  Becky,  come  an'  tek  the  baby." 

Becky,  a  red-armed  damsel,  emerged  from  the  adjoining 
back-kitchen,  and  possessed  herself  of  baby,  whose  feelings  or 
fat  made  him  conveniently  apathetic  under  the  transference. 

"  What'll  you  please  to  tek,  sir,  as  I  can  give  you  ?  I'll  get 
you  a  rasher  o'  bacon  i'  no  time,  an'  I've  got  some  tea,  or  be- 
like you'd  tek  a  glass  o'  rum -an' -water.  I  know  we've  got 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  193 

nothin'  as  you're  used  t'  eat  and  drink;  but  such  as  I  hev, 
sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  give  you." 

"Thank  you,  Dorcas;  I  can't  eat  or  drink  anything.  I'm 
not  hungry  or  tired.  Let  us  talk  about  Tina.  Has  she  spoken 
at  all?" 

"  Xiver  since  the  fust  words.  '  Dear  Dorkis, '  says  she,  '  tek 
me  in  ' ;  an'  then  went  off  into  a  faint,  an'  not  a  word  has  she 
spoken  since.  I  get  her  t'  eat  little  bits  an'  sups  o'  things, 
but  she  teks  no  notice  o'  nothin'.  I've  took  up  Bessie  wi' 
me  now  an'  then  " — here  Dorcas  lifted  to  her  lap  a  curly-headed 
little  girl  of  three,  who  was  twisting  a  corner  of  her  mother's 
apron,  and  opening  round  eyes  at  the  gentleman — "folks'll 
tek  notice  o'  children  sometimes  when  they  won't  o'  nothin' 
else.  An'  we  gethered  the  autumn  crocuses  out  o'  th'  orchard, 
and  Bessie  carried  'em  up  in  her  hand,  an'  put  'em  on  the  bed. 
I  knowed  how  fond  Miss  Tina  was  o'  flowers  an'  them  things, 
when  she  was  a  little  un.  But  she  looked  at  Bessie  an'  the 
flowers  just  the  same  as  if  she  didn't  see  'em.  It  cuts  me  to 
th'  heart  to  look  at  them  eyes  o'  hers;  I  think  they're  bigger 
nor  iver,  an'  they  look  like  my  poor  baby's  as  died,  when  it 
got  so  thin — oh  dear,  its  little  hands  you  could  see  thro'  'em. 
But  I've  great  hopes  if  she  was  to  see  you,  sir,  as  come  from 
the  Manor,  it  might  bring  back  her  mind,  like. " 

Maynard  had  that  hope  too,  but  he  felt  cold  mists  of  fear 
gathering  round  him  after  the  few  bright  warm  hours  of  joyful 
confidence  which  had  passed  since  he  first  heard  that  Caterina 
was  alive.  The  thought  would  urge  itself  upon  him  that  her 
mind  and  body  might  never  recover  the  strain  that  had  been 
put  upon  them — that  her  delicate  thread  of  life  had  already 
nearly  spun  itself  out. 

"  Go  now,  Dorcas,  and  see  how  she  is,  but  don't  say  any- 
thing about  my  being  here.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  wait  till  daylight  before  I  see  her,  and  yet  it  would  be 
very  hard  to  pass  another  night  in  this  way." 

Dorcas  set  down  little  Bessie,  and  went  away.  The  three 
other  children,  including  young  Daniel  in  his  smock-frock, 
were  standing  opposite  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  watching  him  still  more 
shyly  now  they  were  without  their  mother's  countenance.  He 
drew  little  Bessie  toward  him,  and  set  her  on  his  knee.  She 


194  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL   LIFE. 

shook  her  yellow  curls  out  of  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  at  him 
as  she  said — 

"  Zoo  tome  to  tee  ze  yady?  Zoo  mek  her  peak?  What  zoo 
do  to  her?  Tissher?" 

"  Do  you  like  to  be  kissed,  Bessie?  " 

"Det,"  said  Bessie,  immediately  ducking  down  her  head 
very  low,  iu  resistance  to  the  expected  rejoinder. 

"  We've  got  two  pups, "  said  young  Daniel,  emboldened  by 
observing  the  gentleman's  amenities  toward  Bessie.  "  Shall  I 
show  'em  yer?  One's  got  white  spots." 

"  Yes,  let  me  see  them." 

Daniel  ran  out,  and  presently  reappeared  with  two  blind 
puppies,  eagerly  followed  by  the  mother,  affectionate  though 
mongrel,  and  an  exciting  scene  was  beginning  when  Dorcas 
returned  and  said — • 

"  There's  niver  any  difference  iu  her  hardly.  I  think  you 
needn't  wait,  sir.  She  lies  very  still,  as  she  al'ys  does.  I've 
put  two  candles  i'  the  room,  so  as  she  may  see  you  well. 
You'll  please  t'  excuse  the  room,  sir,  an'  the  cap  as  she  has 
on;  it's  one  o'  mine." 

Mr.  Gilfil  nodded  silently,  and  rose  to  follow  her  upstairs. 
They  turned  in  at  the  first  door,  their  footsteps  making  little 
noise  on  the  plaster  floor.  The  red-checkered  linen  curtains 
were  drawn  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  Dorcas  had  placed  the 
candles  on  this  side  of  the  room,  so  that  the  light  might  not 
fall  oppressively  on  Caterina's  eyes.  When  she  had  opened 
the  door,  Dorcas  whispered,  "I'd  better  leave  you,  sir,  I 
think?" 

Mr.  Gilfil  motioned  assent,  and  advanced  beyond  the  cur- 
tain. Caterina  lay  with  her  eyes  turned  the  other  way,  and 
seemed  unconscious  that  any  one  had  entered.  Her  eyes,  as 
Dorcas  had  said,  looked  larger  than  ever,  perhaps  because  her 
face  was  thinner  and  paler,  and  her  hair  quite  gathered  away 
under  one  of  Dorcas's  thick  caps.  The  small  hands,  too,  that 
lay  listlessly  on  the  outside  of  the  bed-clothes  were  thinner 
than  ever.  She  looked  younger  than  she  really  was,  and  any 
one  seeing  the  tiny  face  and  hands  for  the  first  time  might 
have  thought  they  belonged  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve,  who  was 
being  taken  away  from  coming  instead  of  past  sorrow. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE  STORY.  195 

"When  Mr.  Gilfil  advanced  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  the 
light  fell  full  upon  his  face.  A  slight  startled  expression 
came  over  Caterina's  eyes;  she  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a 
few  moments,  then  lifted  up  her  hand  as  if  to  beckon  him  to 
stoop  down  toward  her,  and  whispered,  "  Maynard !  " 

He  seated  himself  on  the  bed,  and  stooped  down  toward 
her.  She  whispered  again — 

"Maynard,  did  you  see  the  dagger?" 

He  followed  his  first  impulse  in  answering  her,  and  it  was 
a  wise  one. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  "I  found  it  in  your  pocket,  and  put 
it  back  again  in  the  cabinet. " 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it  gently,  awaiting  what 
she  would  say  next.  His  heart  swelled  so  with  thankfulness 
that  she  had  recognized  him,  he  could  hardly  repress  a  sob. 
Gradually  her  eyes  became  softer  and  less  intense  in  their 
gaze.  The  tears  were  slowly  gathering,  and  presently  some 
large  hot  drops  rolled  down  her  cheek.  Then  the  flood-gates 
were  opened,  and  the  heart-easing  stream  gushed  forth ;  deep 
sobs  came ;  and  for  nearly  an  hour  she  lay  without  speaking, 
while  the  heavy  icy  pressure  that  withheld  her  misery  from 
utterance  was  thus  melting  away.  How  precious  these  tears 
were  to  Maynard,  who  day  after  day  had  been  shuddering  at 
the  continually  recurring  image  of  Tina  with  the  dry  scorching 
stare  of  insanity ! 

By  degrees  the  sobs  subsided,  she  began  to  breathe  calmly, 
and  lay  quiet  with  her  eyes  shut.  Patiently  Maynard  sat, 
not  heeding  the  flight  of  the  hours,  not  heeding  the  old  clock 
that  ticked  loudly  on  the  landing.  But  when  it  was  nearly 
ten,  Dorcas,  impatiently  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  Mr. 
Gilfil's  appearance,  could  not  help  stepping  in  on  tip-toe. 
Without  moving,  he  whispered  in  her  ear  to  supply  him  with 
candles,  see  that  the  cow-boy  had  shaken  down  his  mare,  and 
go  to  bed — he  would  watch  with  Caterina — a  great  change  had 
come  over  her. 

Before  long,  Tina's  lips  began  to  move.  "Maynard,"  she 
whispered  again.  He  leaned  toward  her,  and  she  went  on — 

"  You  know  how  wicked  I  am,  then?  You  know  what  I 
meant  to  do  with  the  dagger?  " 


196  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Did  you  mean  to  kill  yourself,  Tina?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  then  was  silent  for  a  long 
while.  At  last,  looking  at  him  with  solemn  eyes,  she  whis- 
pered, "To  kill  Aim." 

"  Tina,  my  loved  one,  you  would  never  have  done  it.  God 
saw  your  whole  heart;  He  knows  you  would  never  harm  a 
living  thing.  He  watches  over  His  children,  and  will  not  let 
them,  do  things  they  would  pray  with  their  whole  hearts  not 
to  do.  It  was  the  angry  thought  of  a  moment,  and  He  for- 
gives you." 

She  sank  into  silence  again  till  it  was  nearly  midnight. 
The  weary  enfeebled  spirit  seemed  to  be  making  its  slow  way 
with  difficulty  through  the  windings  of  thought;  and  when 
she  began  to  whisper  again,  it  was  in  reply  to  Maynard's 
words. 

"  But  I  had  had  such  wicked  feelings  for  a  long  while.  I 
was  so  angry,  and  I  hated  Miss  Assher  so,  and  I  didn't  care 
what  came  to  anybody,  because  I  was  so  miserable  myself. 
I  was  full  of  bad  passions.  No  one  else  was  ever  so  wicked." 

"  Yes,  Tina,  many  are  just  as  wicked.  I  often  have  very 
wicked  feelings,  and  am  tempted  to  do  wrong  things ;  but  then 
my  body  is  stronger  than  yours,  and  I  can  hide  my  feelings 
and  resist  them  better.  They  do  not  master  me  so.  You  have 
seen  the  little  birds  when  they  are  very  young  and  just  begin 
to  fly,  how  all  their  feathers  are  ruined  when  they  are  fright- 
ened or  angry ;  they  have  no  power  over  themselves  left,  and 
might  fall  into  a  pit  from  mere  fright.  You  were  like  one  of 
those  little  birds.  Your  sorrow  and  suffering  had  taken  such 
hold  of  you,  you  hardly  knew  what  you  did. " 

He  would  not  speak  long,  lest  he  should  tire  her,  and  op- 
press her  with  too  many  thoughts.  Long  pauses  seemed  need- 
ful for  her  before  she  could  concentrate  her  feelings  in  short 
words. 

"  But  when  I  meant  to  do  it, "  was  the  next  thing  she  whis- 
pered, "  it  was  as  bad  as  if  I  had  done  it." 

"  No,  my  Tina, "  answered  Maynard,  slowly,  waiting  a  little 
between  each  sentence ;  "  we  mean  to  do  wicked  things  that 
we  never  could  do,  just  as  we  mean  to  do  good  or  clever  things 
that  we  never  could  do.  Our  thoughts  are  often  worse  than 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  197 

we  are,  just  as  they  are  often  better  than  we  are.  And  God 
sees  us  as  we  are  altogether,  not  in  separate  feelings  or  actions, 
as  our  fellow-men  see  us.  We  are  always  doing  each  other 
injustice,  and  thinking  better  or  worse  of  each  other  than  we 
deserve,  because  we  only  hear  and  see  separate  words  and 
actions.  We  don't  see  each  other's  whole  nature.  But  God 
sees  that  you  could  not  have  committed  that  crime." 

Caterina  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent.  After  a 
while — 

"I  don't  know."  she  said;  "I  seemed  to  see  him  coming 
toward  me,  just  as  he  would  really  have  looked,  and  I  meant 
— I  meant  to  do  it." 

"  But  when  you  saw  him — tell  me  how  it  was,  Tina?  " 

"  I  saw  him  lying  on  the  ground  and  thought  he  was  ill. 
I  don't  know  how  it  was  then;  I  forgot  everything.  I 
knelt  down  and  spoke  to  him,  and — and  he  took  no  notice 
of  me,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  I  began  to  think  he  was 
dead." 

"And  you  have  never  felt  angry  since? " 

"  Oh  no,  no ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  more  wicked  than  any 
one;  it  is  I  who  have  been  wrong  all  through." 

"No,  Tina;  the  fault  has  not  all  been  yours;  he  was  wrong; 
he  gave  you  provocation.  And  wrong  makes  wrong.  When 
people  use  us  ill,  we  can  hardly  help  having  ill-feeling  toward 
them.  But  that  second  wrong  is  more  excusable.  I  am  more 
sinful  than  you,  Tina;  I  have  often  had  very  bad  feelings 
toward  Captain  Wybrow ;  and  if  he  had  provoked  me  as  he 
did  you,  I  should  perhaps  have  done  something  more  wicked." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  so  wrong  in  him ;  he  didn't  know  how  he 
hurt  me.  How  was  it  likely  he  could  love  me  as  I  loved  him? 
And  how  could  he  marry  a  poor  little  thing  like  me?  " 

Maynard  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  there  was  again  silence, 
till  Tina  said — 

"  Then  I  was  so  deceitful ;  they  didn't  know  how  wicked  I 
was.  Padroncello  didn't  know;  his  good  little  monkey  he 
used  to  call  me ;  and  if  he  had  known,  oh  how  naughty  he 
would  have  thought  me!  " 

"  My  Tina,  we  have  all  our  secret  sins ;  and  if  we  knew  our- 
selves, we  should  not  judge  each  other  harshly.  Sir  Christo- 


198  SCENES  OR  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

pher  himself  has  felt,  since  this  trouble  carae  upon  him,  that 
he  has  been  too  severe  and  obstinate." 

In  this  way — in  these  broken  confessions  and  answering 
words  of  comfort — the  hours  wore  on,  from  the  deep  black 
night  to  the  chill  early  twilight,  and  from  early  twilight  to  the 
first  yellow  streak  of  morning  parting  the  purple  cloud.  Mr. 
Gilfil  felt  as  if  in  the  long  hours  of  that  night  the  bond  that 
united  his  love  for  ever  and  alone  to  Caterina  had  acquired 
fresh  strength  and  sanctity.  It  is  so  with  the  human  rela- 
tions that  rest  on  the  deep  emotional  sympathy  of  affection : 
every  new  day  and  night  of  joy  or  sorrow  is  a  new  ground,  a 
new  consecration,  for  the  love  that  is  nourished  by  memories 
as  well  as  hopes — the  love  to  which  perpetual  repetition  is  not 
a  weariness  but  a  want,  and  to  which  a  separated  joy  is  the 
beginning  of  pain. 

The  cocks  began  to  crow;  the  gate  swung;  there  was  a 
tramp  of  footsteps  in  the  yard,  and  Mr.  Gilfil  heard  Dorcas 
stirring.  These  sounds  seemed  to  affect  Caterina,  for  she 
looked  anxiously  at  him  and  said,  "  Maynard,  are  you  going 
away?" 

"  No,  I  shall  stay  here  at  Callam  until  you  are  better,  and 
then  you  will  go  away  too." 

"  Never  to  the  Manor  again,  oh  no !  I  shall  live  poorly,  and 
get  my  own  bread." 

"  Well,  dearest,  you  shall  do  what  you  would  like  best. 
But  I  wish  you  could  go  to  sleep  now.  Try  to  rest  quietly, 
and  by  and  by  you  will  perhaps  sit  up  a  little.  God  has  kept 
you  in  life  in  spite  of  all  this  sorrow ;  it  will  be  sinful  not  to 
try  and  make  the  best  of  His  gift.  Dear  Tina,  you  will  try; 
— and  little  Bessie  brought  you  some  crocuses  once,  you  didn't 
notice  the  poor  little  thing;  but  you  will  notice  her  when  she 
comes  again,  will  you  not?  " 

"I  will  try,"  whispered  Tina,  humbly,  and  then  closed  her 
eyes. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  above  the  horizon,  scattering  the 
clouds,  and  shining  with  pleasant  morning  warmth  through 
the  little  leaded  window,  Caterina  was  asleep.  Maynard  gen- 
tly loosed  the  tiny  hand,  cheered  Dorcas  with  the  good  news, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  village  inn,  with  a  thankful  heart 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  199 

that  Tina  had  been  so  far  herself  again.  Evidently  the  sight 
of  him  had  blended  naturally  with  the  memories  in  which  her 
mind  was  absorbed,  and  she  had  been  led  on  to  an  unburthen- 
ing  of  herself  that  might  be  the  beginning  of  a  complete  res- 
toration. But  her  body  was  so  enfeebled — her  soul  so  bruised 
— that  the  utmost  tenderness  and  care  would  be  necessary. 
The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  send  tidings  to  Sir  Christo- 
pher and  Lady  Cheverel;  then  to  write  and  summon  his  sister, 
under  whose  care  he  had  determined  to  place  Caterina.  The 
Manor,  even  if  she  had  been  wishing  to  return  thither,  would, 
he  knew,  be  the  most  undesirable  home  for  her  at  present ; 
every  scene,  every  object  there,  was  associated  with  still  un- 
allayed  anguish.  If  she  were  domesticated  for  a  time  with 
his  mild  gentle  sister,  who  had  a  peaceful  home  and  a  prat- 
tling little  boy,  Tina  might  attach  herself  anew  to  life,  and 
recover,  partly  at  least,  the  shock  that  had  been  given  to  her 
constitution.  When  he  had  wTitten  his  letters  and  taken  a 
hasty  breakfast,  he  was  soon  in  his  saddle  again,  on  his  way 
to  Sloppeter,  where  he  would  post  them,  and  seek  out  a  medi- 
cal man,  to  whom  he  might  confide  the  moral  causes  of  Cate- 
riua's  enfeebled  condition. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

IN  less  than  a  week  from  that  time,  Caterina  was  persuaded 
to  travel  in  a  comfortable  carriage,  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Gil- 
fil  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Heron,  whose  soft  blue  eyes  and  mild 
manners  were  very  soothing  to  the  poor  bruised  child — the 
more  so  as  they  had  an  air  of  sisterly  equality,  which  was 
quite  new  to  her.  Under  Lady  Cheverel's  uncaressing  author- 
itative good-will,  Tina  had  always  retained  a  certain  constraint 
and  awe;  and  there  was  a  sweetness  before  unknown  in  hav- 
ing a  young  and  gentle  woman,  like  an  elder  sister,  bending 
over  her  caressingly  and  speaking  in  low  loving  tones. 

Maynard  was  almost  angry  with  himself  for  feeling  happy 
while  Tina's  mind  and  body  were  still  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  irrecoverable  decline ;  but  the  new  delight  of  acting  as  her 


200  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

guardian  angel,  of  being  with  her  every  hour  of  the  day,  of 
devising  everything  for  her  comfort,  of  watching  for  a  ray 
of  returning  interest  in  her  eyes,  was  too  absorbing  to  leave 
room  for  alarm  or  regret. 

On  the  third  day  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  of  Fox- 
holm  Parsonage,  where  the  Eev.  Arthur  Heron  presented  him- 
self on  the  door-step,  eager  to  greet  his  returning  Lucy,  and 
holding  by  the  hand  a  broad-chested  tawny -haired  boy  of  five, 
who  was  smacking  a  miniature  hunting-whip  with  great  vigor. 

Nowhere  was  there  a  lawn  more  smooth-shaven,  walks  bet- 
ter swept,  or  a  porch  more  prettily  festooned  with  creepers 
than  at  Foxholm  Parsonage,  standing  snugly  sheltered  by 
beeches  and  chestnuts  half-way  down  the  pretty  green  hill 
which  was  surmounted  by  the  church,  and  overlooking  a  vil- 
lage that  straggled  at  its  ease  among  pastures  and  meadows, 
surrounded  by  wild  hedgerows  and  broad  shadowing  trees,  as 
yet  unthreatened  by  improved  methods  of  farming. 

Brightly  the  fire  shone  in  the  great  parlor,  and  brightly  in 
the  little  pink  bedroom,  which  was  to  be  Caterina's,  because 
it  looked  away  from  the  churchyard,  and  on  to  a  farm  home- 
stead, with  its  little  cluster  of  beehive  ricks,  and  placid 
groups  of  cows,  and  cheerful  matin  sounds  of  healthy  labor. 
Mrs.  Heron,  with  the  instinct  of  a  delicate  impressible  woman, 
had  written  to  her  husband  to  have  this  room  prepared  for 
Caterina.  Contented  speckled  hens,  industriously  scratching 
for  the  rarely  found  corn,  may  sometimes  do  more  for  a  sick 
heart  than  a  grove  of  nightingales ;  there  is  something  irre- 
sistibly calming  in  the  unsentimental  cheeriness  of  topknotted 
pullets,  unpetted  sheep-dogs,  and  patient  cart-horses  enjoying 
a  drink  of  muddy  water. 

In  such  a  home  as  this  parsonage,  a  nest  of  comfort,  with- 
out any  of  the  stateliness  that  would  carry  a  suggestion  of 
Cheverel  Manor,  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  unreasonable  in  hoping 
that  Caterina  might  gradually  shake  off  the  haunting  vision  of 
the  past,  and  recover  from  the  languor  and  feebleness  which 
were  the  physical  sign  of  that  vision's  blighting  presence. 
The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  arrange  an  exchange  of  du- 
ties with  Mr.  Heron's  curate,  that  Maynard  might  be  con- 
stantly near  Caterina,  and  watch  over  her  progress.  She 


MR.   GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  201 

seemed  to  like  him  to  be  with  her,  to  look  uneasily  for  his 
return ;  and  though  she  seldom  spoke  to  him,  she  was  most 
contented  when  he  sat  by  her,  and  held  her  tiny  hand  in  his 
large  protecting  grasp.  But  Oswald,  alias  Ozzy,  the  broad- 
chested  boy,  was  perhaps  her  most  beneficial  companion. 
With  something  of  his  uncle's  person,  he  had  inherited  also 
his  uncle's  early  taste  for  a  domestic  menagerie,  and  was 
very  imperative  in  demanding  Tina's  sympathy  in  the  welfare 
of  his  guinea-pigs,  squirrels,  and  dormice.  With  him  she 
seemed  now  and  then  to  have  gleams  of  her  childhood  coming 
athwart  the  leaden  clouds,  and  many  hours  of  winter  went  by 
the  more  easily  for  being  spent  in  Ozzy's  nursery. 

Mrs.  Heron  was  not  musical,  and  had  no  instrument;  but 
one  of  Mr.  Gilfil's  cares  was  to  procure  a  harpsichord,  and 
have  it  placed  in  the  drawing-room,  always  open,  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  the  spirit  of  music  would  be  reawakened  in 
Caterina,  and  she  would  be  attracted  toward  the  instrument. 
But  the  winter  was  almost  gone  by,  and  he  had  waited  in  vain. 
The  utmost  improvement  in  Tina  had  not  gone  beyond  passive- 
ness  and  acquiescence — a  quiet  grateful  smile,  compliance  with 
Oswald's  whims,  and  an  increasing  consciousness  of  what  was 
being  said  and  done  around  her.  Sometimes  she  would  take 
up  a  bit  of  woman's  work,  but  she  seemed  too  languid  to  per- 
severe in  it ;  her  fingers  soon  dropped,  and  she  relapsed  into 
motionless  revery. 

At  last — it  was  one  of  those  bright  days  in  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary, when  the  sun  is  shining  with  a  promise  of  approaching 
spring.  Maynard  had  been  walking  with  her  and  Oswald 
round  the  garden  to  look  at  the  snowdrops,  and  she  was  rest- 
ing on  the  sofa  after  the  walk.  Ozzy,  roaming  about  the  room 
in  quest  of  a  forbidden  pleasure,  came  to  the  harpsichord,  and 
struck  the  handle  of  his  whip  on  a  deep  bass  note. 

The  vibration  rushed  through  Caterina  like  an  electric 
shock :  it  seemed  as  if  at  that  instant  a  new  soul  were  entering 
into  her,  and  filling  her  with  a  deeper,  more  significant  life. 
She  looked  round,  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  to  the  harp- 
sichord. In  a  moment  her  fingers  were  wandering  with  their 
old  sweet  method  among  the  keys,  and  her  soul  was  floating  in 
its  true  familiar  element  of  delicious  sound,  as  the  water- 


202  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

plant  that  lies  withered  and  shrunken  on  the  ground  expands 
into  freedom  and  beauty  when  once  more  bathed  in  its  native 
flood. 

Maynard  thanked  God.  An  active  power  was  reawakened, 
and  must  make  a  new  epoch  in  Caterina's  recovery. 

Presently  there  were  low  liquid  notes  blending  themselves 
with  the  harder  tones  of  the  instrument,  and  gradually  the 
pure  voice  swelled  into  predominance.  Little  Ozzy  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  legs  very 
wide  apart,  struck  with  something  like  awe  at  this  new  power 
in  "Tin-Tin,"  as  he  called  her,  whom  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  think  of  as  a  playfellow  not  at  all  clever,  and  very  much  in 
need  of  his  instruction  on  many  subjects.  A  genie  soaring 
with  broad  wings  out  of  his  milk- jug  would  not  have  been 
more  astonishing. 

Caterina  was  singing  the  very  air  from  the  Orfeo  which  we 
heard  her  singing  so  many  months  ago  at  the  beginning  of  her 
sorrows.  It  was  Che  faro,  Sir  Christopher's  favorite,  and  its 
notes  seemed  to  carry  on  their  wings  all  the  tenderest  memo- 
ries of  her  life,  when  Cheverel  Manor  was  still  an  untroubled 
home.  The  long  happy  days  of  childhood  and  girlhood  recov- 
ered all  their  rightful  predominance  over  the  short  interval"  of 
sin  and  sorrow. 

She  paused,  and  burst  into  tears — the  first  tears  she  had 
shed  since  she  had  been  at  Foxholm.  Maynard  could  not  help 
hurrying  toward  her,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  and  leaning 
down  to  kiss  her  hair.  She  nestled  to  him,  and  put  up  her 
little  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

The  delicate-tendrilled  plant  must  have  something  to  cling 
to.  The  soul  that  was  born  anew  to  music  was  born  anew  to 
love. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

ON  the  30th  of  May,  1790,  a  very  pretty  sight  was  seen  by 
the  villagers  assembled  near  the  door  of  Foxholm  church. 
The  sun  was  bright  upon  the  dewy  grass,  the  air  was  alive 
with  the  murmur  of  bees  and  the  trilling  of  birds,  the  bushy 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  203 

blossoming  chestnuts  and  the  foamy  flowering  hedgerows 
seemed  to  be  crowding  round  to  learn  why  the  church-bells 
were  ringing  so  merrily,  as  Maynard  Gilfil,  his  face  bright 
with  happiness,  walked  out  of  the  old  Gothic  doorway  with 
Tina  on  his  arm.  The  little  face  was  still  pale,  and  there  was 
a  subdued  melancholy  in  it,  as  of  one  who  sups  with  friends 
for  the  last  time,  and  has  his  ear  open  for  the  signa.  that  will 
call  him  away.  But  the  tiny  hand  rested  with  the  pressure  of 
contented  affection  on  Maynard's  arm,  and  the  dark  eyes  met 
his  downward  glance  with  timid  answering  love. 

There  was  no  train  of  bridesmaids ;  only  pretty  Mrs.  Heron 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  dark-haired  young  man  hitherto  un- 
known in  Foxholm,  and  holding  by  the  other  hand  little  Ozzy, 
who  exulted  less  in  his  new  velvet  cap  and  tunic,  than  in  the 
notion  that  he  was  bridesman  to  Tin-Tin. 

Last  of  all  came  a  couple  whom  the  villagers  eyed  yet  more 
eagerly  than  the  bride  and  bridegroom :  a  fine  old  gentleman, 
who  looked  round  with  keen  glances  that  cowed  the  conscious 
scapegraces  among  them,  and  a  stately  lady  in  blue-and-white 
silk  robes,  who  must  surely  be  like  Queen  Charlotte. 

"  Well,  that  theer's  whut  I  call  a  pictur,"  said  old  "Mes- 
ter"  Ford,  a  true  Staffordshire  patriarch,  who  leaned  on  a 
stick  and  held  his  head  very  much  on  one  side,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  had  little  hope  of  the  present  generation  but 
would  at  all  events  give  it  the  benefit  of  his  criticism.  '  Th' 
young  men  noo-a-deys,  the're  poor  squashy  things — the'  looke 
well  auoof,  but  the'  woon't  wear,  the'  woon't  wear.  Theer's 
ne'er  un'll  carry  his  'ears  like  that  Sir  Cris'fer  Chuvrell.'- 

"  'Ull  bet  ye  two  pots,"  said  another  of  the  seniors,  "as 
that  yoongster  a-walkin'  wi'  th'  parson's  wife'll  be  Sir  Cris'- 
fer's  son — he  favors  him." 

"Nay,  yae'll  bet  that  wi'  as  big  a  fule  as  yersen;  hae's  noo 
son  at  all.  As  I  oonderstan',  hae's  the  nevey  as  is  t'  heir  th' 
esteate.  The  coochman  as  puts  oop  at  th'  White  Hoss  tellt 
me  as  theer  war  another  nevey,  a  deal  finer  chap  t'  looke  at 
nor  this  un,  as  died  in  a  fit,  all  on  a  soodden,  an'  soo  this  here 
yoong  un's  got  upo'  th'  perch  istid." 

At  the  church  gate  Mr.  Bates  was  standing  in  a  new  suit, 
ready  to  speak  words  of  good  omen  as  the  bride  and  bride- 


204  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

groom  approached.  He  had  come  all  the  way  from  Cheverel 
Manor  on  purpose  to  see  Miss  Tina  happy  once  more,  and 
would  have  been  in  a  state  of  unmixed  joy  but  for  the  infe- 
riority of  the  wedding  nosegays  to  what  he  could  have  fur- 
nished from  the  garden  at  the  Manor. 

"  God  A'maighty  bless  ye  both,  an'  send  ye  long  laife  an' 
happiness,"  were  the  good  gardener's  rather  tremulous  words. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle  Bates ;  always  remember  Tina,"  said  the 
sweet  low  voice,  which  fell  on  Mr.  Bates' s  ear  for  the  last  time. 

The  wedding  journey  was  to  be  a  circuitous  route  to  Shep- 
perton,  where  Mr.  Gilfil  had  been  for  several  months  inducted 
as  vicar.  This  small  living  had  been  given  him  through  the 
interest  of  an  old  friend  who  had  some  claim  on  the  gratitude 
of  the  Oldinport  family ;  and  it  was  a  satisfaction  both  to 
Maynard  and  Sir  Christopher  that  a  home  to  which  he  might 
take  Caterina  had  thus  readily  presented  itself  at  a  distance 
from  Cheverel  Manor.  For  it  had  never  yet  been  thought  safe 
that  she  should  revisit  the  scene  of  her  sufferings,  her  health 
continuing  too  delicate  to  encourage  the  slightest  risk  of  pain- 
ful excitement.  In  a  year  or  two,  perhaps,  by  the  time  old  Mr. 
Crichley,  the  rector  of  Cumbermoor,  should  have  left  a  world 
of  gout,  and  when  Caterina  would  very  likely  be  a  happy 
mother,  Maynard  might  safely  take  up  his  abode  at  Cumber- 
moor,  and  Tina  would  feel  nothing  but  content  at  seeing  a 
new  "  little  black-eyed  monkey  "  running  up  and  down  the 
gallery  and  gardens  of  the  Manor.  A  mother  dreads  no  mem- 
ories— those  shadows  have  all  melted  away  in  the  dawn  of 
baby's  smile. 

In  these  hopes,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  Tina's  nestling 
affection,  Mr.  Gilfil  tasted  a  few  months  of  perfect  happiness. 
She  had  come  to  lean  entirely  on  his  love,  and  to  find  life 
sweet  for  his  sake.  Her  continual  languor  and  want  of  active 
interest  was  a  natural  consequence  of  bodily  feebleness,  and 
the  prospect  of  her  becoming  a  mother  was  a  new  ground  for 
hoping  the  best. 

But  the  delicate  plant  had  been  too  deeply  bruised,  and  in 
the  struggle  to  put  forth  a  blossom  it  died. 

Tina  died,  and  Maynard  Gilfil's  love  went  with  her  into 
deep  silence  for  evermore. 


MR.    GILFIL'S  LOVE-STORY.  205 


EPILOGUE. 

THIS  was  Mr.  Gilfil's  love-story,  which  lay  far  back  from 
the  time  when  he  sat,  worn  and  gray,  by  his  lonely  fireside  in 
Shepperton  Vicarage.  Rich  brown  locks,  passionate  love,  and 
deep  early  sorrow,  strangely  different  as  they  seem  from  the 
scanty  white  hairs,  the  apathetic  content,  and  the  unexpect- 
ant  quiescence  of  old  age,  are  but  part  of  the  same  life's  jour- 
ney ;  as  the  bright  Italian  plains,  with  the  sweet  Addio  of 
their  beckoning  maidens,  are  part  of  the  same  day's  travel 
that  brings  us  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  between  the 
sombre  rocky  walls  and  among  the  guttural  voices  of  the 
Valais. 

To  those  who  were  familiar  only  with  the  gray-haired  Vicar, 
jogging  leisurely  along  on  his  old  chestnut  cob,  it  would  per- 
haps have  been  hard  to  believe  that  he  had  ever  been  the 
Maynard  Gilfil  who,  with  a  heart  full  of  passion  and  tender- 
ness, had  urged  his  black  Kitty  to  her  swiftest  gallop  011  the 
way  to  Callam,  or  that  the  old  gentleman  of  caustic  tongue, 
and  bucolic  tastes,  and  sparing  habits,  had  known  all  the  deep 
secrets  of  devoted  love,  had  struggled  through  its  days  and 
nights  of  anguish,  and  trembled  under  its  unspeakable  joys. 
And  indeed  the  Mr.  Gilfil  of  those  late  Shepperton  days  had 
more  of  the  knots  and  ruggedness  of  poor  human  nature  than 
there  lay  any  clear  hint  of  in  the  open-eyed  loving  Maynard. 
But  it  is  with  men  as  with  trees :  if  you  lop  off  their  finest 
branches,  into  which  they  were  pouring  their  young  life-juice, 
the  wounds  will  be  healed  over  with  some  rough  boss,  some 
odd  excrescence ;  and  what  might  have  been  a  grand  tree  ex- 
panding into  liberal  shade,  is  but  a  whimsical  misshapen 
trunk.  Many  an  irritating  fault,  many  an  unlovely  oddity, 
has  come  of  a  hard  sorrow,  which  has  crushed  and  maimed 
the  nature  just  when  it  was  expanding  into  plenteous  beauty ; 
and  the  trivial  erring  life  which  we  visit  with  our  harsh  blame, 
may  be  but  as  the  unsteady  motion  of  a  man  whose  best  limb 
is  withered. 

And  so  the  dear  old  Vicar,  though  he  had  something  of  the 


206  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

knotted  whimsical  character  of  the  poor  lopped  oak,  had  yet 
been  sketched  out  by  nature  as  a  noble  tree.  The  heart  of 
him  was  sound,  the  grain  was  of  the  finest;  and  in  the  gray- 
haired  man  who  filled  his  pocket  with  sugar-plums  for  the  lit- 
tle children,  whose  most  biting  words  were  directed  against 
the  evil  doing  of  the  rich  man,  and  who,  with  all  his  social 
pipes  and  slipshod  talk,  never  sank  below  the  highest  level  of 
his  parishioners'  respect,  there  was  the  main  trunk  of  the 
same  brave,  faithful,  tender  nature  that  had  poured  out  the 
finest,  freshest  forces  of  its  life-current  in  a  first  and  only  love 
— the  love  of  Tina. 


JANET'S    REPENTANCE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  No !  "  said  lawyer  Dempster,  in  a  loud,  rasping,  oratorical 
tone,  struggling  against  chronic  huskiness,  "as  long  as  my 
Maker  grants  me  power  of  voice  and  power  of  intellect,  I  will 
take  every  legal  means  to  resist  the  introduction  of  demoraliz- 
ing, methodistical  doctrine  into  this  parish ;  I  will  not  supinely 
suffer  an  insult  to  be  inflicted  on  our  venerable  pastor,  who  has 
given  us  sound  instruction  for  half  a  century." 

It  was  very  warm  everywhere  that  evening,  but  especially 
in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion  at  Milby,  where  Mr.  Dempster  was 
seated  mixing  his  third  glass  of  brandy -and- water.  He  was 
a  tall  and  rather  massive  man,  and  the  front  half  of  his  large 
surface  was  so  well  dredged  with  snuff,  that  the  cat,  having 
inadvertently  come  near  him,  had  been  seized  with  a  severe  fit 
of  sneezing — an  accident  which,  being  cruelly  misunderstood, 
had  caused  her  to  be  driven  contumeliously  from  the  bar.  Mr. 
Dempster  habitually  held  his  chin  tucked  in,  and  his  head 
hanging  forward,  weighed  down,  perhaps,  by  a  preponderant 
occiput  and  a  bulging  forehead,  between  which  his  closely 
clipped  coronal  surface  lay  like  a  flat  and  new-mown  table- 
land. The  only  other  observable  features  were  puffy  cheeks 
and  a  protruding  yet  lipless  mouth.  Of  his  nose  I  can  only 
say  that  it  was  snuffy ;  and  as  Mr.  Dempster  was  never  caught 
in  the  act  of  looking  at  anything  in  particular,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  swear  to  the  color  of  his  eyes. 

"Well!  I'll  not  stick  at  giving  myself  trouble  to  put  down 
such  hypocritical  cant,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  the  rich  miller. 
"  I  know  well  enough  what  your  Sunday  evening  lectures  are 
good  for — for  wenches  to  meet  their  sweethearts,  and  brew 


208  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

mischief.  There's  work  enough  with  the  servant-maids  as  it 
is — such  as  I  never  heard  the  like  of  in  my  mother's  time,  and 
it's  all  along  o'  your  schooling  and  newfangled  plans.  Give 
me  a  servant  as  can  nayther  read  nor  write,  I  say,  and  doesn't 
know  the  year  o'  the  Lord  as  she  was  born  in.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  good  those  Sunday  schools  have  done,  now. 
Why,  the  boys  used  to  go  a  bird's-nesting  of  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing ;  and  a  capital  thing  too — ask  any  farmer ;  and  very  pretty 
it  was  to  see  the  strings  o'  heggs  hanging  up  in  poor  people's 
houses.  You'll  not  see  'em  nowhere  now." 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  piqued  himself  on  his 
reading,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  casual  acquaintances 
if  they  knew  anything  of  Hobbes ;  "  it  is  right  enough  that 
the  lower  orders  should  be  instructed.  But  this  sectarianism 
within  the  Church  ought  to  be  put  down.  In  point  of  fact, 
these  Evangelicals  are  not  Churchmen  at  all;  they're  no  bet- 
ter than  Presbyterians." 

"Presbyterians?  what  are  they?"  inquired  Mr.  Tomlinson, 
who  often  said  his  father  had  given  him  "  no  eddication,  and 
he  didn't  care  who  knowed  it;  he  could  buy  up  most  o'  th' 
eddicated  men  he'd  ever  come  across." 

"  The  Presbyterians,"  said  Mr.  Dempster,  in  rather  a  louder 
tone  than  before,  holding  that  every  appeal  for  information 
must  naturally  be  addressed  to  him,  "are  a  sect  founded  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.,  by  a  man  named  John  Presbyter,  who 
hatched  all  the  brood  of  Dissenting  vermin  that  crawl  about  in 
dirty  alleys,  and  circumvent  the  lord  of  the  manor  in  order  to 
get  a  few  yards  of  ground  for  their  pigeon-house  conventicles." 

"No,  no,  Dempster,"  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  "you're  out 
there.  Presbyterianism  is  derived  from  the  word  presbyter, 
meaning  an  elder." 

"Don't  contradict  me,  sir!"  stormed  Dempster.  "I  say 
the  word  presbyterian  is  derived  from  John  Presbyter,  a  mis- 
erable fanatic  who  wore  a  suit  of  leather,  and  went  about  from 
town  to  village,  and  from  village  to  hamlet,  inoculating  the 
vulgar  with  the  asinine  virus  of  Dissent." 

"Come,  Byles,  that  seems  a  deal  more  likely,"  said  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  apparently  of  opinion  that 
history  was  a  process  of  ingenious  guessing. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  209 

"It's  not  a  question  of  likelihood;  it's  a  known  fact.  I 
could  fetch  you  my  Encyclopaedia,  and  show  it  you  this  mo- 
ment." 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw,  sir,  either  for  you  or  your  Encyclo- 
paedia," said  Mr.  Dempster;  "a  farrago  of  false  information 
of  which  you  picked  up  an  imperfect  copy  in  a  cargo  of  waste 
paper.  Will  you  tell  me,  sir,  that  I  don't  know  the  origin  of 
Presbyterianism?  I,  sir,  a  man  known  through  the  county, 
intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  half  a  score  parishes ;  while  you, 
sir,  are  ignored  by  the  very  fleas  that  infest  the  miserable 
alley  in  which  you  were  bred." 

A  loud  and  general  laugh,  with  "You'd  better  let  him 
alone,  Byles  " ;  "  you'll  not  get  the  better  of  Dempster  in  a 
hurry,"  drowned  the  retort  of  the  too  well-informed  Mr.  Byles, 
who,  white  with  rage,  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  bar. 

"A  meddlesome,  upstart,  Jacobinical  fellow,  gentlemen," 
continued  Mr.  Dempster.  "I  was  determined  to  be  rid  of 
him.  What  does  he  mean  by  thrusting  himself  into  our  com- 
pany? A  man  with  about  as  much  principle  as  he  has  prop- 
erty, which,  to  my  knowledge,  is  considerably  less  than  none. 
An  insolvent  atheist,  gentlemen.  A  deistical  prater,  fit  to  sit 
in  the  chimney-corner  of  a  pot-house,  and  make  blasphemous 
comments  on  the  one  greasy  newspaper  fingered  by  beer-swill- 
ing tinkers.  I  will  not  suffer  in  my  company  a  man  who 
speaks  lightly  of  religion.  The  signature  of  a  fellow  like 
Byles  would  be  a  blot  on  our  protest. " 

"And  how  do  you  get  on  with  your  signatures?"  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  the  doctor,  who  had  presented  his  large  top-booted 
person  within  the  bar  while  Mr.  Dempster  was  speaking. 
Mr.  Pilgrim  had  just  returned  from  one  of  his  long  day's 
rounds  among  the  farmhouses,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had 
sat  down  to  two  hearty  meals  that  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  dinners  if  he  had  not  declared  them  to  be  "  snaps  " ;  and 
as  each  snap  had  been  followed  by  a  few  glasses  of  "  mixture, " 
containing  a  less  liberal  proportion  of  water  than  the  articles 
he  himself  labelled  with  that  broadly  generic  name,  he  was  in 
that  condition  which  his  groom  indicated  with  poetic  ambigu- 
ity by  saying  that  "  master  had  been  in  the  sunshine."  Under 
these  circumstances,  after  a  hard  day,  in  which  he  had  really 


210  SCENES  OF   CLERICAL  LIFE. 

had  no  regular  meal,  it  seemed  a  natural  relaxation  to  step  into 
the  bar  of  the  Ked  Lion,  where,  as  it  was  Saturday  evening, 
he  should  be  sure  to  find  Dempster,  and  hear  the  latest  news 
about  the  protest  against  the  evening  lecture. 

"  Have  you  hooked  Ben  Landor  yet?  "  he  continued,  as  he 
took  two  chairs,  one  for  his  body,  and  the  other  for  his  right 
leg. 

"  No, "  said  Mr.  Budd,  the  churchwarden,  shaking  his  head ; 
"  Ben  Landor  has  a  way  of  keeping  himself  neutral  in  every- 
thing, and  he  doesn't  like  to  oppose  his  father.  Old  Landor 
is  a  regular  Tryanite.  But  we  haven't  got  your  name  yet, 
Pilgrim." 

"  Tut  tut,  Budd, "  said  Mr.  Dempster,  sarcastically,  "  you 
don't  expect  Pilgrim  to  sign?  He's  got  a  dozen  Tryauite  liv- 
ers under  his  treatment.  Nothing  like  cant  and  methodism 
for  producing  a  superfluity  of  bile." 

"  Oh,  I  thought,  as  Pratt  had  declared  himself  a  Tryanite, 
we  should  be  sure  to  get  Pilgrim  on  our  side." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  not  a  man  to  sit  quiet  under  a  sarcasm, 
nature  having  endowed  him  with  a  considerable  share  of  self- 
defensive  wit.  In  his  most  sober  moments  he  had  an  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech,  and  as  copious  gin-and-water  stimulated 
not  the  speech  but  the  impediment,  he  had  time  to  make  his 
retort  sufficiently  bitter. 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Budd,"  he  spluttered,  "there's 
a  report  all  over  the  town  that  Deb  Traunter  swears  you  shall 
take  her  with  you  as  one  of  the  delegates,  and  they  say  there's 
to  be  a  fine  crowd  at  your  door  the  morning  you  start,  to  see 
the  row.  Knowing  your  tenderness  for  that  member  of  the 
fair  sex,  I  thought  you  might  find  it  impossible  to  deny  her. 
I  hang  back  a  little  from  signing  on  that  account,  as  Prender- 
gast  might  not  take  the  protest  well  if  Deb  Traunter  went  with 
you. " 

Mr.  Budd  was  a  small,  sleek-headed  bachelor  of  five  and 
forty,  whose  scandalous  life  had  long  furnished  his  more  moral 
neighbors  with  an  after-dinner  joke.  He  had  no  other  striking 
characteristic,  except  that  he  was  a  currier  of  choleric  temper- 
ament, so  that  you  might  wonder  why  he  had  been  chosen  as 
clergyman's  churchwarden,  if  I  did  not  tell  you  that  he  had 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  211 

recently  been  elected  through  Mr.  Dempster's  exertions,  in 
order  that  his  zeal  against  the  threatened  evening  lecture 
might  be  backed  by  the  dignity  of  office. 

"Come,  come,  Pilgrim,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  covering  Mr. 
Budd's  retreat,  "you  know  you  like  to  wear  the  crier's  coat, 
green  o'  one  side  and  red  o'  the  other.  You've  been  to  hear 
Try  an  preach  at  Paddiford  Common — yon  know  you  have." 

"To  be  sure  I  have;  and  a  capital  sermon  too.  It's  a  pity 
you  were  not  there.  It  was  addressed  to  those  '  void  of  under- 
standing.' ' 

"No,  no,  you'll  never  catch  me  there,"  returned  Mr.  Tom- 
linson,  not  in  the  least  stung;  "he  preaches  without  book, 
they  say,  just  like  a  Dissenter.  It  must  be  a  ramling  sort  of 
a  concern." 

"That's  not  the  worst,"  said  Mr.  Dempster;  "he  preaches 
against  good  works;  says  good  works  are  not  necessary  to  sal- 
vation— a  sectarian,  antinomian,  anabaptist  doctrine.  Tell  a 
man  he  is  not  to  be  saved  by  his  works,  and  you  open  the 
flood-gates  of  all  immorality.  You  see  it  in  all  these  canting 
innovators;  they're  all  bad  ones  by  the  sly;  smooth-faced, 
drawling,  hypocritical  fellows,  who  pretend  ginger  isn't  hot 
in  their  mouths,  and  cry  down  all  innocent  pleasures;  their 
hearts  are  all  the  blacker  for  their  sanctimonious  outsides. 
Haven't  we  been  warned  against  those  who  make  clean  the 
outside  of  the  cup  and  the  platter?  There's  this  Tryan,  now, 
he  goes  about  praying  with  old  women,  and  singing  with  char- 
ity-children ;  but  what  has  he  really  got  his  eye  on  all  the 
while?  A  domineering  ambitious  Jesuit,  gentlemen;  all  he 
wants  is  to  get  his  foot  far  enough  into  the  parish  to  step  into 
Crewe's  shoes  when  the  old  gentleman  dies.  Depend  upon  it, 
whenever  you  see  a  man  pretending  to  be  better  than  his 
neighbors,  that  man  has  either  some  cunning  end  to  serve,  or 
his  heart  is  rotten  with  spiritual  pride." 

As  if  to  guarantee  himself  against  this  awful  sin,  Mr. 
Dempster  seized  his  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  and  tossed  off 
the  contents  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  usual. 

"  Have  you  fixed  on  your  third  delegate  yet?  "  said  Mr.  Pil- 
grim, whose  taste  was  for  detail  rather  than  for  dissertation. 

''That's  the  man,"  answered  Dempster,  pointing  to  Mr. 


212  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Tomlinson.  "We  start  for  Elmstoke  Kectory  on  Tuesday 
morning;  so,  if  you  mean  to  give  us  your  signature,  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  pretty  quickly,  Pilgrim." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  did  not  in  the  least  mean  it,  so  he  only  said, 
"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Tryan  turns  out  too  many  for  you, 
after  all.  He's  got  a  well-oiled  tongue  of  his  own,  and  has 
perhaps  talked  over  Prendergast  into  a  determination  to  stand 
by  him." 

"  Ve-ry  little  fear  of  that,"  said  Dempster,  in  a  confident 
tone.  "  I'll  soon  bring  him  round.  Tryau  has  got  his  match. 
I've  plenty  of  rods  in  pickle  for  Tryan." 

At  this  moment  Boots  entered  the  bar,  and  put  a  letter  into 
the  lawyer's  hands,  saying,  "  There's  Trower's  man  just  come 
into  the  yard  wi'  a  gig,  sir,  an'  he's  brought  this  here  letter." 

Mr.  Dempster  read  the  letter  and  said,  "  Tell  him  to  turn 
the  gig — I'll  be  with  him  in  a  minute.  Here,  run  to  Gruby's 
and  get  this  snuff-box  filled — quick!  " 

"Trower's  worse,  I  suppose;  eh,  Dempster?  Wants  you 
to  alter  his  will,  eh?  "  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 

"Business  —  business  —  business  —  I  don't  know  exactly 
what,"  answered  the  cautious  Dempster,  rising  deliberately 
from  his  chair,  thrusting  on  his  low-crowned  hat,  and  walking 
with  a  slow  but  not  unsteady  step  out  of  the  bar. 

"I  never  see  Dempster's  equal;  if  I  did  I'll  be  shot,"  said 
Mr.  Tomlinson,  looking  after  the  lawyer  admiringly.  "  Why, 
he's  drunk  the  best  part  of  a  bottle  o'  brandy  since  here  we've 
been  sitting,  and  I'll  bet  a  guinea,  when  he's  got  to  Trower's 
his  head  '11  be  as  clear  as  mine.  He  knows  more  about  law 
when  he's  drunk  than  all  the  rest  on  'em  when  they're  sober." 

"Ay,  and  other  things  too,  besides  law,"  said  Mr.  Budd. 
"  Did  you  notice  how  he  took  up  Byles  about  the  Presbyteri- 
ans? Bless  your  heart,  he  know  everything,  Dempster  does. 
He  studied  very  hard  when  he  was  a  young  man." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  213 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  conversation  just  recorded  is  not,  I  am  aware,  remark- 
ably refined  or  witty ;  but  if  it  had  been,  it  could  hardly  have 
taken  place  in  Milby  when  Mr.  Dempster  flourished  there, 
and  old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  was  yet  alive. 

More  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  slipped  by  since  then, 
and  in  the  interval  Milby  has  advanced  at  as  rapid  a  pace  as 
other  market-towns  in  her  Majesty's  dominions.  By  this  time 
it  has  a  handsome  railway-station,  where  the  drowsy  London 
traveller  may  look  out  by  the  brilliant  gas-light  and  see  per- 
fectly sober  papas  and  husbands  alighting  with  their  leather 
bags  after  transacting  their  day's  business  at  the  county  town. 
There  is  a  resident  rector,  who  appeals  to  the  consciences  of 
his  hearers  with  all  the  immense  advantages  of  a  divine  who 
keeps  his  own  carriage;  the  church  is  enlarged  by  at  least  five 
hundred  sittings ;  and  the  grammar-school,  conducted  on  re- 
formed principles,  has  its  upper  forms  crowded  with  the  gen- 
teel youth  of  Milby.  The  gentlemen  there  fall  into  no  other 
excess  at  dinner-parties  than  the  perfectly  well-bred  and  vir- 
tuous excess  of  stupidity ;  and  though  the  ladies  are  still  said 
sometimes  to  take  too  much  upon  themselves,  they  are  never 
known  to  take  too  much  in  any  other  way.  The  conversation 
is  sometimes  quite  literary,  for  there  is  a  flourishing  book-club, 
and  many  of  the  younger  ladies  have  carried  their  studies  so 
far  as  to  have  forgotten  a  little  German.  In  short,  Milby  is 
now  a  refined,  moral,  and  enlightened  town ;  no  more  resem- 
bling the  Milby  of  former  days  than  the  huge,  long-skirted, 
drab  great-coat  that  embarrassed  the  ankles  of  our  grandfathers 
resembled  the  light  paletot  in  which  we  tread  jauntily  through 
the  muddiest  streets,  or  than  the  bottled-nosed  Britons,  rejoic- 
ing over  a  tankard  in  the  old  sign  of  the  Two  Travellers  at 
Milby,  resembled  the  severe-looking  gentleman  in  straps  and 
high  collars  whom  a  modern  artist  has  represented  as  sipping 
the  imaginary  port  of  that  well-known  commercial  house. 

But  pray,  reader,  dismiss  from  your  mind  all  the  refined 
and  fashionable  ideas  associated  with  this  advanced  state  of 


214  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

things,  and  transport  your  imagination  to  a  time  when  Milby 
had  no  gas-lights ;  when  the  mail  drove  up  dusty  or  bespat- 
tered to  the  door  of  the  Eed  Lion ;  when  old  Mr.  Crewe,  the 
curate,  in  a  brown  Brutus  wig,  delivered  inaudible  sermons  on 
a  Sunday,  and  on  a  week-day  imparted  the  education  of  a  gen- 
tleman— that  is  to  say,  an  arduous  inacquaintance  with  Latin 
through  the  medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar — to  three  pupils  in 
the  upper  grammar-school. 

If  you  had  passed  through  Milby  on  the  coach  at  that  time, 
you  would  have  had  no  idea  what  important  people  lived  there, 
and  how  very  high  a  sense  of  rank  was  prevalent  among  them. 
It  was  a  dingy-looking  town,  with  a  strong  smell  of  tanning 
up  one  street  and  a  great  shaking  of  handlooms  up  another; 
and  even  in  that  focus  of  aristocracy,  Friar's  Gate,  the  houses 
would  not  have  seemed  very  imposing  to  the  hasty  and  super- 
ficial glance  of  a  passenger.  You  might  still  less  have  sus- 
pected that  the  figure  in  light  fustian  and  large  gray  whis- 
kers, leaning  against  the  grocer's  door-post  in  High  Street,  was 
no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Lowme,  one  of  the  most  aristocratic 
men  in  Milby,  said  to  have  been  "  brought  up  a  gentleman, " 
and  to  have  had  the  gay  habits  accordant  with  that  station, 
keeping  his  harriers  and  other  expensive  animals.  He  was 
now  quite  an  elderly  Lothario,  reduced  to  the  most  economical 
sins ;  the  prominent  form  of  his  gayety  being  this  of  lounging 
at  Mr.  Gruby's  door,  embarrassing  the  servant-maids  who  came 
for  grocery,  and  talking  scandal  with  the  rare  passers-by. 
Still,  it  was  generally  understood  that  Mr.  Lowme  belonged 
to  the  highest  circle  of  Milby  society ;  his  sons  and  daughters 
held  up  their  heads  very  high  indeed;  and  in  spite  of  his  con- 
descending way  of  chatting  and  drinking  with  inferior  people, 
he  would  himself  have  scorned  any  closer  identification  with 
them.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  of  some  service  to 
the  town  in  this  station  at  Mr.  Gruby's  door,  for  he  and  Mr. 
Lander's  Newfoundland  dog,  who  stretched  himself  and  gaped 
on  the  opposite  causeway,  took  something  from  the  lifeless  air 
that  belonged  to  the  High  Street  on  every  day  except  Satur- 
day. 

Certainly,  in  spite  of  three  assemblies  and  a  charity  ball  in 
the  winter,  the  occasional  advent  of  a  ventriloquist,  or  a  com- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  215 

pany  of  itinerant  players,  some  of  whom  were  very  highly 
thought  of  in  London,  and  the  annual  three  days'  fair  in  June, 
Milby  might  be  considered  dull  by  people  of  a  hypochondria- 
cal  temperament ;  and  perhaps  this  was  one  reason  why  many 
of  the  middle-aged  inhabitants,  male  and  female,  often  found 
it  impossible  to  keep  up  their  spirits  without  a  very  abundant 
supply  of  stimulants.  It  is  true  there  were  several  substan- 
tial men  who  had  a  reputation  for  exceptional  sobriety,  so  that 
Milby  habits  were  really  not  as  bad  as  possible ;  and  no  one  is 
warranted  in  saying  that  old  Mr.  Ore  we' s  flock  could  not  have 
been  worse  without  any  clergyman  at  all. 

The  well-dressed  parishioners  generally  were  very  regular 
church-goers,  and  to  the  younger  ladies  and  gentlemen  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  Sunday-morning  service  was  the 
most  exciting  event  of  the  week ;  for  few  places  could  present 
a  more  brilliant  show  of  outdoor  toilets  than  might  be  seen 
issuing  from  Milby  church  at  one  o'clock.  There  were  the 
four  tall  Miss  Pittmans,  old  lawyer  Pittman's  daughters,  with 
cannon  curls  surmounted  by  large  hats,  and  long,  drooping 
ostrich  feathers  of  parrot  green.  There  was  Miss  Phipps, 
with  a  crimson  bonnet,  very  much  tilted  up  behind,  and  a 
cockade  of  stiff  feathers  on  the  summit.  There  was  Miss  Lan- 
dor,  the  belle  of  Milby,  clad  regally  in  purple  and  ermine, 
with  a  plume  of  feathers  neither  drooping  nor  erect,  but  main- 
taining a  discreet  medium.  There  were  the  three  Miss  Tom- 
linsons,  who  imitated  Miss  Landor,  and  also  wore  ermine  and 
feathers ;  but  their  beauty  was  considered  of  a  coarse  order, 
and  their  square  forms  were  quite  unsuited  to  the  round  tippet 
which  fell  with  such  remarkable  grace  on  Miss  Landor's  slop- 
ing shoulders.  Looking  at  this  plumed  procession  of  ladies, 
you  would  have  formed  rather  a  high  idea  of  Milby  wealth ; 
yet  there  was  only  one  close  carriage  in  the  place,  and  that 
was  old  Mr.  Landor's,  the  banker,  who,  I  think,  never  drove 
more  than  one  horse.  These  sumptuously  attired  ladies  flashed 
past  the  vulgar  eye  in  one-horse  chaises,  by  no  means  of  a  su- 
perior build. 

The  young  gentlemen,  too,  were  not  without  their  little 
Sunday  displays  of  costume,  of  a  limited  masculine  kind. 
Mr.  Eustace  Landor,  being  nearly  of  age,  had  recently  acquired 


216  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

a  diamond  ring,  together  with  the  habit  of  rubbing  his  hand 
through  his  hair.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  and  thus  had  an  ad- 
vantage which  Mr.  Alfred  Phipps,  who,  like  his  sister,  was 
blond  and  stump}',  found  it  difficult  to  overtake,  even  by  the 
severest  attention  to  shirt-studs,  and  the  particular  shade  of 
brown  that  was  best  relieved  by  gilt  buttons. 

The  respect  for  the  Sabbath,  manifested  in  this  attention  to 
costume,  was  unhappily  counterbalanced  by  considerable  lev- 
ity of  behavior  during  the  prayers  and  sermon ;  for  the  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Milby  were  of  a  very  satirical  turn, 
Miss  Landor  especially  being  considered  remarkably  clever, 
and  a  terrible  quiz;  and  the  large  congregation  necessarily 
containing  many  persons  inferior  in  dress  and  demeanor  to  the 
distinguished  aristocratic  minority,  divine  service  offered  irre- 
sistible temptations  to  joking,  through  the  medium  of  tele- 
graphic communications  from  the  galleries  to  the  aisles  and 
back  again.  I  remember  blushing  very  much,  and  thinking 
Miss  Landor  was  laughing  at  me,  because  I  was  appearing  in 
coat-tails  for  the  first  time,  when  I  saw  her  look  down  slyly 
toward  where  I  sat,  and  then  turn  with  a  titter  to  handsome 
Mr.  Bob  Lowme,  who  had  such  beautiful  whiskers  meeting 
under  his  chin.  But  perhaps  she  was  not  thinking  of  me, 
after  all;  for  our  pew  was  near  the  pulpit,  and  there  was 
almost  always  something  funny  about  old  Mr.  Crewe.  His 
brown  wig  was  hardly  ever  put  on  quite  right,  and  he  had  a 
way  of  raising  his  voice  for  three  or  four  words,  and  lowering 
it  again  to  a  mumble,  so  that  we  could  scarcely  make  out  a 
word  he  said ;  though,  as  my  mother  observed,  that  was  of  no 
consequence  in  the  prayers,  since  every  one  had  a  prayer-book ; 
and  as  for  the  sermon,  she  continued  with  some  causticity,  AVC 
all  of  us  heard  more  of  it  than  we  could  remember  when  we 
got  home. 

This  youthful  generation  was  not  particularly  literary. 
The  young  ladies  who  frizzed  their  hair,  and  gathered  it  all 
into  large  barricades  in  front  of  their  heads,  leaving  their 
occipital  region  exposed  without  ornament,  as  if  that,  being  a 
back  view,  was  of  no  consequence,  dreamed  as  little  that  their 
daughters  would  read  a  selection  of  German  poetry,  and  be  able 
to  express  an  admiration  for  Schiller,  as  that  they  would  turn 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  217 

all  their  hair  the  other  way — that  instead  of  threatening  us 
with  barricades  in  front,  they  would  be  most  killing  in  retreat, 

"  And,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  us  as  they  fly." 

Those  charming  well-frizzed  ladies  spoke  French  indeed  with 
considerable  facility,  unshackled  by  any  timid  regard  to  idiom, 
and  were  in  the  habit  of  conducting  conversations  in  that  lan- 
guage in  the  presence  of  their  less  instructed  elders ;  for  accord- 
ing to  the  standard  of  those  backward  days,  their  education 
had  been  very  lavish,  such  young  ladies  as  Miss  Landor,  Miss 
Phipps,  and  the  Miss  Pittmans,  having  been  "finished"  at 
distant  and  expensive  schools. 

Old  lawyer  Pittman  had  once  been  a  very  important  person 
indeed,  having  in  his  earlier  days  managed  the  affairs  of  sev- 
eral gentlemen  in  those  parts,  who  had  subsequently  been 
obliged  to  sell  everything  and  leave  the  country,  in  which  cri- 
sis Mr.  Pittman  accommodatingly  stepped  in  as  a  purchaser  of 
their  estates,  taking  on  himself  the  risk  and  trouble  of  a  more 
leisurely  sale;  which,  however,  happened  to  turn  out  very 
much  to  his  advantage.  Such  opportunities  occur  quite  unex- 
pectedly in  the  way  of  business.  But  I  think  Mr.  Pittman 
must  have  been  unlucky  in  his  later  speculations,  for  now,  in 
his  old  age,  he  had  not  the  reputation  of  being  very  rich ;  and 
though  he  rode  slowly  to  his  office  in  Milby  every  morning  on 
an  old  white  hackney,  he  had  to  resign  the  chief  profits,  as 
well  as  the  active  business  of  the  firm,  to  his  younger  partner, 
Dempster.  No  one  in  Milby  considered  old  Pittman  a  virtu- 
ous man,  and  the  elder  townspeople  were  not  at  all  backward 
in  narrating  the  least  advantageous  portions  of  his  biography 
in  a  very  round  unvarnished  manner.  Yet  I  could  never  ob- 
serve that  they  trusted  him  any  the  less,  or  liked  him  any  the 
worse.  Indeed,  Pittman  and  Dempster  were  the  popular  law- 
yers of  Milby  and  its  neighborhood,  and  Mr.  Benjamin  Landor, 
whom  no  one  had  anything  particular  to  say  against,  had  a 
very  meagre  business  in  comparison.  Hardly  a  landholder, 
hardly  a  farmer,  hardly  a  parish  within  ten  miles  of  Milby, 
whose  affairs  were  not  under  the  legal  guardianship  of  Pitt- 
man and  Dempster ;  and  I  think  the  clients  were  proud  of 
their  lawyers'  unscrupulousness,  as  the  patrons  of  the  fancy 


218  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

are  proud  of  their  champion's  "  condition."  It  was  not,  to  be 
sure,  the  thing  for  ordinary  life,  but  it  was  the  thing  to  be  bet 
on  in  a  lawyer.  Dempster's  talent  in  "  bringing  through"  a 
client  was  a  very  common  topic  of  conversation  with  the  farm- 
ers, over  an  incidental  glass  of  grog  at  the  Red  Lion.  "  lie's 
a  long-headed  feller,  Dempster ;  why,  it  shows  yer  what  a 
headpiece  Dempster  has,  as  he  can  drink  a  bottle  o'  brandy 
at  a  sittin',  an'  yit  see  further  through  a  stone  Avail  when  he's 
done,  than  other  folks  '11  see  through  a  glass  winder."  Even 
Mr.  Jerome,  chief  member  of  the  congregation  at  Salem 
Chapel,  an  elderly  man  of  very  strict  life,  was  one  of  Demp- 
ster's clients,  and  had  quite  an  exceptional  indulgence  for  his 
attorney's  foibles,  perhaps  attributing  them  to  the  inevitable 
incompatibility  of  law  and  gospel. 

The  standard  of  morality  at  Milby,  you  perceive,  was  not 
inconveniently  high  in  those  good  old  times,  and  an  ingenuous 
vice  or  two  was  what  every  man  expected  of  his  neighbor. 
Old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  for  example,  was  allowed  to  enjoy 
his  avarice  in  comfort,  without  fear  of  sarcastic  parish  dema- 
gogues; and  his  flock  liked  him  all  the  better  for  having 
scraped  together  a  large  fortune  out  of  his  school  and  curacy, 
and  the  proceeds  of  the  three  thousand  pounds  he  had  with 
his  little  deaf  wife.  It  was  clear  he  must  be  a  learned  man, 
for  he  had  once  had  a  large  private  school  in  connection  with 
the  grammar-school,  and  had  even  numbered  a  young  noble- 
man or  two  among  his  pupils.  The  fact  that  he  read  nothing 
at  all  now,  and  that  his  mind  seemed  absorbed  in  the  common- 
est matters,  was  doubtless  due  to  his  having  exhausted  the  re- 
sources of  erudition  earlier  in  life.  It  is  true  he  was  not 
spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  respect,  and  old  Crewe's  stingy 
housekeeping  was  a  frequent  subject  of  jesting;  but  this  was 
a  good  old-fashioned  characteristic  in  a  parson  who  had  been 
part  of  Milby  life  for  half  a  century :  it  was  like  the  dents  and 
disfigurements  in  an  old  family  tankard,  which  no  one  would 
like  to  part  with  for  a  smart  new  piece  of  plate  fresh  from 
Birmingham.  The  parishioners  saw  no  reason  at  all  why  it 
should  be  desirable  to  venerate  the  parson  or  any  one  else : 
they  were  much  more  comfortable  to  look  down  a  little  on 
their  fellow-creatures. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  219 

Even  the  Dissent  in  Milby  was  then  of  a  lax  and  indifferent 
kind.  The  doctrine  of  adult  baptism,  struggling  under  a 
heavy  load  of  debt,  had  let  off  half  its  chapel  area  as  a  ribbon- 
shop  ;  and  Methodism  was  only  to  be  detected,  as  you  detect 
curious  larvae,  by  diligent  search  in  dirty  corners.  The  Inde- 
pendents were  the  only  Dissenters  of  whose  existence  Milby 
gentility  was  at  all  conscious,  and  it  had  a  vague  idea  that  the 
salient  points  of  their  creed  were  prayer  without  book,  red 
brick,  and  hypocrisy.  The  Independent  chapel,  known  as 
Salem,  stood  red  and  conspicuous  in  a  broad  street ;  more  than 
one  pew-holder  kept  a  brass-bound  gig;  and  Mr.  Jerome,  a 
retired  corn-factor,  and  the  most  eminent  member  of  the  con- 
gregation, was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  parish.  But  in 
spite  of  this  apparent  prosperity,  together  with  the  usual 
amount  of  extemporaneous  preaching  mitigated  by  furtive 
notes,  Salem  belied  its  name,  and  was  not  always  the  abode 
of  peace.  For  some  reason  or  other,  it  was  unfortunate  in  the 
choice  of  its  ministers.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Homer,  elected  with 
brilliant  hopes,  was  discovered  to  be  given  to  tippling  and 
quarrelling  with  his  wife;  the  Eev.  Mr.  Rose's  doctrine  was 
a  little  too  "high,"  verging  on  antinomianism ;  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Stickney's  gift  as  a  preacher  was  found  to  be  less  striking  on 
a  more  extended  acquaintance ;  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Smith,  a  dis- 
tinguished minister  much  sought  after  in  the  iron  districts, 
with  a  talent  for  poetry,  became  objectionable  from  an  inclina- 
tion to  exchange  verses  with  the  young  ladies  of  his  congrega- 
tion. It  was  reasonably  argued  that  such  verses  as  Mr.  Smith's 
must  take  a  long  time  for  their  composition,  and  the  habit 
alluded  to  might  intrench  seriously  on  his  pastoral  duties. 
These  reverend  gentlemen,  one  and  all,  gave  it  as  their  opinion 
that  the  Salem  church  members  were  among  the  least  enlight- 
ened of  the  Lord's  people,  and  that  Milby  was  a  low  place, 
where  they  would  have  found  it  a  severe  lot  to  have  their  lines 
fall  for  any  long  period ;  though  to  see  the  smart  and  crowded 
congregation  assembled  on  occasion  of  the  annual  charity  ser- 
mon, any  one  might  have  supposed  that  the  minister  of  Salem 
had  rather  a  brilliant  position  in  the  ranks  of  Dissent.  Sev- 
eral Church  families  used  to  attend  on  that  occasion,  for  Milby, 
in  those  uninstructed  days,  had  not  yet  heard  that  the  schis- 


220  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

matic  ministers  of  Salem  were  obviously  typified  by  Korah, 
Dathan,  and  Abiram ;  and  many  Church  people  there  were  of 
opinion  that  Dissent  might  be  a  weakness,  but,  after  all,  had 
no  great  harm  in  it.  These  lax  Episcopalians  were,  I  believe, 
chiefly  tradespeople,  who  held  that,  inasmuch  as  Congrega- 
tionalism consumed  candles,  it  ought  to  be  supported,  and 
accordingly  made  a  point  of  presenting  themselves  at  Salem 
for  the  afternoon  charity  sermon,  with  the  expectation  of  be- 
ing asked  to  hold  a  plate.  Mr.  Pilgrim,  too,  was  always  there 
with  his  half-sovereign ;  for  as  there  was  no  Dissenting  doctor 
in  Milby,  Mr.  Pilgrim  looked  Avith  great  tolerance  on  all  shades 
of  religious  opinion  that  did  not  include  a  belief  in  cures  by 
miracle. 

On  this  point  he  had  the  concurrence  of  Mr.  Pratt,  the  only 
other  medical  man  of  the  same  standing  in  Milby.  Otherwise, 
it  was  remarkable  how  strongly  these  two  clever  men  were 
contrasted.  Pratt  was  middle-sized,  insinuating,  and  silvery- 
voiced;  Pilgrim  was  tall,  heavy,  rough-mannered,  and  splut- 
tering. Both  were  considered  to  have  great  powers  of  con- 
versation, but  Pratt's  anecdotes  were  of  the  fine  old  crusted 
quality  to  be  procured  only  of  Joe  Miller;  Pilgrim's  had  the 
full  fruity  flavor  of  the  most  recent  scandal.  Pratt  elegantly 
referred  all  diseases  to  debility,  and,  with  a  proper  contempt  for 
symptomatic  treatment,  went  to  the  root  of  the  matter  with 
port-wine  and  bark;  Pilgrim  was  persuaded  that  the  evil  prin- 
ciple in  the  human  system  was  plethora,  and  he  made  war 
against  it  with  cupping,  blistering,  and  cathartics.  They  had 
both  been  long  established  in  Milby,  and  as  each  had  a  suffi- 
cient practice,  there  was  no  very  malignant  rivalry  between 
them ;  on  the  contrary,  they  had  that  sort  of  friendly  con- 
tempt for  each  other  which  is  always  conducive  to  a  good 
understanding  between  professional  men;  and  when  any  new 
surgeon  attempted,  in  an  ill-advised  hour,  to  settle  himself  in 
the  town,  it  was  strikingly  demonstrated  how  slight  and  triv- 
ial are  theoretic  differences  compared  with  the  broad  basis  of 
common  human  feeling.  There  was  the  most  perfect  unanim- 
ity between  Pratt  and  Pilgrim  in  the  determination  to  drive 
away  the  obnoxious  and  too  probably  unqualified  intruder  as 
soon  as  possible.  Whether  the  first  wonderful  cure  he  effected 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  221 

was  on  a  patient  of  Pratt' s  or  of  Pilgrim's,  one  was  as  ready 
as  the  other  to  pull  the  interloper  by  the  nose,  and  both  alike 
directed  their  remarkable  powers  of  conversation  toward  mak- 
ing the  town  too  hot  for  him.  But  by  their  respective  pa- 
tients these  two  distinguished  men  were  pitted  against  each 
other  with  great  virulence.  Mrs.  Lowine  could  not  conceal 
her  amazement  that  Mrs.  Phipps  should  trust  her  life  in  the 
hands  of  Pratt,  who  let  her  feed  herself  up  to  that  degree,  it 
was  really  shocking  to  hear  how  short  her  breath  was;  and 
Mrs.  Phipps  had  no  patience  with  Mrs.  Lowme,  living,  as  she 
did,  on  tea  and  broth,  and  looking  as  yellow  as  any  crow-flower, 
and  yet  letting  Pilgrim  bleed  and  blister  her  and  give  her  low- 
ering medicine  till  her  clothes  hung  on  her  like  a  scarecrow's. 
On  the  whole,  perhaps,  Mr.  Pilgrim's  reputation  was  at  the 
higher  pitch,  and  when  any  lady  under  Mr.  Pratt's  care  was 
doing  ill,  she  was  half  disposed  to  think  that  a  little  more 
"  active  treatment "  might  suit  her  better.  But  without  very 
definite  provocation  no  one  would  take  so  serious  a  step  as  to 
part  with  the  family  doctor,  for  in  those  remote  days  there 
were  few  varieties  of  human  hatred  more  formidable  than  the 
medical.  The  doctor's  estimate,  even  of  a  confiding  patient, 
was  apt  to  rise  and  fall  with  the  entries  in  the  day-book;  and 
I  have  known  Mr.  Pilgrim  discover  the  most  unexpected  vir- 
tues in  a  patient  seized  with  a  promising  illness.  At  such 
times  you  might  have  been  glad  to  perceive  that  there  were 
some  of  Mr.  Pilgrim's  fellow-creatures  of  whom  he  entertained 
a  high  opinion,  and  that  he  was  liable  to  the  amiable  weak- 
ness of  a  too  admiring  estimate.  A  good  inflammation  fired 
his  enthusiasm,  and  a  lingering  dropsy  dissolved  him  into 
charity.  Doubtless  this  crescendo  of  benevolence  was  partly 
due  to  feelings  not  at  all  represented  by  the  entries  in  the  day- 
book; for  in  Mr.  Pilgrim's  heart,  too,  there  was  a  latent  store 
of  tenderness  and  pity  which  flowed  forth  at  the  sight  of 
suffering.  Gradually,  however,  as  his  patients  became  con- 
valescent, his  view  of  their  characters  became  more  dispas- 
sionate; when  they  could  relish  mutton-chops,  he  began  to 
admit  that  they  had  foibles,  and  by  the  time  they  had  swal- 
lowed their  last  dose  of  tonic,  he  was  alive  to  their  most  inex- 
cusable faults.  After  this,  the  thermometer  of  his  regard 


222  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

rested  at  the  moderate  point  of  friendly  backbiting,  which 
sufficed  to  make  him  agreeable  in  his  morning  visits  to  the 
amiable  and  worthy  persons  who  were  yet  far  from  convales- 
cent. 

Pratt' s  patients  were  profoundly  uninteresting  to  Pilgrim: 
their  very  diseases  were  despicable,  and  he  would  hardly  have 
thought  their  bodies  worth  dissecting.  But  of  all  Pratt' s  pa- 
tients, Mr.  Jerome  was  the  one  on  whom  Mr.  Pilgrim  heaped 
the  most  unmitigated  contempt.  In  spite  of  the  surgeon's 
wise  tolerance,  Dissent  became  odious  to  him  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  Jerome.  Perhaps  it  was  because  that  old  gentleman, 
being  rich,  and  having  very  large  yearly  bills  to  pay  for  medi- 
cal attendance  on  himself  and  his  wife,  nevertheless  employed 
Pratt — neglected  all  the  advantages  of  "  active  treatment,"  and 
paid  away  his  money  without  getting  his  system  lowered. 
On  any  other  ground  it  is  hard  to  explain  a  feeling  of  hostility 
to  Mr.  Jerome,  who  was  an  excellent  old  gentleman,  express- 
ing a  great  deal  of  good- will  toward  his  neighbors,  not  only  in 
imperfect  English,  but  in  loans  of  money  to  the  ostensibly  rich, 
and  in  sacks  of  potatoes  to  the  obviously  poor. 

Assuredly  Mil  by  had  that  salt  of  goodness  which  keeps  the 
world  together,  in  greater  abundance  than  was  visible  on  the 
surface:  innocent  babes  were  born  there,  sweetening  their 
parents'  hearts  with  simple  joys;  men  and  women  withering 
in  disappointed  worldliness,  or  bloated  with  sensual  ease,  had 
better  moments  in  which  they  pressed  the  hand  of  suffering 
with  sympathy,  and  were  moved  to  deeds  of  neighborly  kind- 
ness. In  church  and  in  chapel  there  were  honest-hearted 
worshippers  who  strove  to  keep  a  conscience  void  of  offence ; 
and  even  up  the  dimmest  alleys  you  might  have  found  here 
and  there  a  Wesleyan  to  whom  Methodism  was  the  vehicle  of 
peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men.  To  a  superficial  glance, 
Milby  was  nothing  but  dreary  prose :  a  dingy  town,  surround- 
ed by  flat  fields,  lopped  elms,  and  sprawling  manufacturing 
villages,  which  crept  on  and  on  with  their  weaving-shops,  till 
they  threatened  to  graft  themselves  on  the  town.  But  the 
sweet  spring  came  to  Milby  notwithstanding :  the  elm-tops 
were  red  with  buds ;  the  churchyard  was  starred  with  daisies ; 
the  lark  showered  his  love-music  on  the  flat  fields;  the  rain- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  223 

bows  hung  over  the  dingy  town,  clothing  the  very  roofs  and 
chimneys  in  a  strange  transfiguring  beauty.  And  so  it  was 
with  the  human  life  there,  which  at  first  seemed  a  dismal  mix- 
ture of  griping  worldliness,  vanity,  ostrich-feathers,  and  the 
fumes  of  brandy :  looking  closer,  you  found  some  purity,  gen- 
tleness, and  unselfishness,  as  you  may  have  observed  a  scented 
geranium  giving  forth  its  wholesome  odors  amidst  blasphemy 
and  gin  in  a  noisy  pot-house.  Little  deaf  Mrs.  Crewe  would 
often  carry  half  her  own  spare  dinner  to  the  sick  and  hungry ; 
Miss  Phipps,  with  her  cockade  of  red  feathers,  had  a  filial 
heart,  and  lighted  her  father's  pipe  with  a  pleasant  smile; 
and  there  were  gray-haired  men  in  drab  gaiters,  not  at  all 
noticeable  as  you  passed  them  in  the  street,  whose  integrity 
had  been  the  basis  of  their  rich  neighbor's  wealth. 

Such  as  the  place  was,  the  people  there  were  entirely  con- 
tented with  it.  They  fancied  life  must  be  but  a  dull  affair 
for  that  large  portion  of  mankind  who  were  necessarily  shut 
out  from  an  acquaintance  with  Milby  families,  and  that  it 
must  be  an  advantage  to  London  and  Liverpool  that  Milby 
gentlemen  occasionally  visited  those  places  on  business.  But 
the  inhabitants  became  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  value 
they  set  upon  all  their  advantages,  when  innovation  made  its 
appearance  in  the  person  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tryan,  the  new 
curate,  at  the  chapel-of-ease  on  Paddiford  Common.  It  was 
soon  notorious  in  Milby  that  Mr.  Tryan  held  peculiar  opinions ; 
that  he  preached  extempore ;  that  he  was  founding  a  religious 
lending  library  in  his  remote  corner  of  the  parish;  that  he 
expounded  the  Scriptures  in  cottages ;  and  that  his  preaching 
was  attracting  the  Dissenters,  and  filling  the  very  aisles  of  his 
church.  The  rumor  sprang  up  that  Evangelicalism  had  in- 
vaded Milby  parish — a  murrain  or  blight  all  the  more  terrible, 
because  its  nature  was  but  dimly  conjectured.  Perhaps  Milby 
was  one  of  the  last  spots  to  be  reached  by  the  wave  of  a  new 
movement;  and  it  was  only  now,  when  the  tide  was  just  on 
the  turn,  that  the  limpets  there  got  a  sprinkling.  Mr.  Tryan 
was  the  first  Evangelical  clergyman  who  had  risen  above  the 
Milby  horizon :  hitherto  that  obnoxious  adjective  had  been 
unknown  to  the  townspeople  of  any  gentility ;  and  there  were 
even  many  Dissenters  who  considered  "  evangelical "  simply  a 


224  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sort  of  baptismal  name  to  the  magazine  which  circulated  among 
the  congregation  of  Salem  Chapel.  But  now,  at  length,  the 
disease  had  been  imported,  when  the  parishioners  were  expect- 
ing it  as  little  as  the  innocent  Red  Indians  expected  smallpox. 
As  long  as  Mr.  Tryan's  hearers  were  confined  to  Paddiford 
Common — which,  by  the  by,  was  hardly  recognizable  as  a 
common  at  all,  but  was  a  dismal  district  where  you  heard  the 
rattle  of  the  hand  loom,  and  breathed  the  smoke  of  coal-pits 
— the  "  canting  parson  "  could  be  treated  as  a  joke.  Not  so 
when  a  number  of  single  ladies  in  the  town  appeared  to  be 
infected,  and  even  one  or  two  men  of  substantial  property, 
with  old  Mr.  Landor,  the  banker,  at  their  head,  seemed  to  be 
"giving  in"  to  the  new  movement — when  Mr.  Tryan  was 
known  to  be  well  received  in  several  good  houses,  where  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  finishing  the  evening  with  exhortation  and 
prayer.  Evangelicalism  was  no  longer  a  nuisance  existing 
merely  in  by -corners,  which  any  well-clad  person  could  avoid ; 
it  was  invading  the  very  drawing-rooms,  mingling  itself  with 
the  comfortable  fumes  of  port-wine  and  brandy,  threatening 
to  deaden  with  its  murky  breath  all  the  splendor  of  the 
ostrich-feathers,  and  to  stifle  Milby  ingenuousness,  not  pre- 
tending to  be  better  than  its  neighbors,  with  a  cloud  of  cant 
and  lugubrious  hypocrisy.  The  alarm  reached  its  climax 
when  it  was  reported  that  Mr.  Tryan  was  endeavoring  to  ob- 
tain authority  from  Mr.  Prendergast,  the  non-resident  rector, 
to  establish  a  Sunday-evening  lecture  in  the  parish  church,  on 
the  ground  that  old  Mr.  Crewe  did  not  preach  the  Gospel. 

It  now  first  appeared  how  surprisingly  high  a  value  Milby 
in  general  set  on  the  ministrations  of  Mr.  Crewe ;  how  con- 
vinced it  was  that  Mr.  Crewe  was  the  model  of  a  parish  priest, 
and  his  sermons  the  soundest  and  most  edifying  that  had 
ever  remained  unheard  by  a  church-going  population.  All 
allusions  to  his  brown  wig  were  suppressed,  and  by  a  rhetori- 
cal figure  his  name  was  associated  with  venerable  gray  hairs ; 
the  attempted  intrusion  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  an  insult  to  a  man 
deep  in  years  and  learning ;  moreover,  it  was  an  insolent  effort 
to  thrust  himself  forward  in  a  parish  where  he  was  clearly  dis- 
tasteful to  the  superior  portion  of  its  inhabitants.  The  town 
was  divided  into  two  zealous  parties,  the  Tryanites  and  anti- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  225 

Tryanites;  and  by  the  exertions  of  the  eloquent  Dempster, 
the  anti-Tryanite  virulence  was  soon  developed  into  an  organ- 
ized opposition.  A  protest  against  the  meditated  evening  lec- 
ture was  framed  by  that  orthodox  attorney,  and,  after  being 
numerously  signed,  was  to  be  carried  to  Mr.  Prendergast  by 
three  delegates  representing  the  intellect,  morality,  and  wealth 
of  Milby.  The  intellect,  you  perceive,  was  to  be  personified 
in  Mr.  Dempster,  the  morality  in  Mr.  Budd,  and  the  wealth 
in  Mr.  Tomlinson ;  and  the  distinguished  triad  was  to  set  out 
on  its  great  mission,  as  we  have  seen,  on  the  third  day  from 
that  warm  Saturday  evening  when  the  conversation  recorded 
in  the  previous  chapter  took  place  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion. 


CHAPTER    III. 

IT  was  quite  as  warm  on  the  following  Thursday  evening, 
when  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues  were  to  return  from 
their  mission  to  Elmstoke  Rectory ;  but  it  was  much  pleas- 
anter  in  Mrs.  Linnet's  parlor  than  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  scent  of  mignonette  and 
honeysuckles  j  the  grass-plot  in  front  of  the  house  was  shaded 
by  a  little  plantation  of  Gueldres  roses,  syringas,  and  labur- 
nums; the  noise  of  looms  and  carts  and  unmelodious  voices 
reached  the  ear  simply  as  an  agreeable  murmur,  for  Mrs. 
Linnet's  house  was  situated  quite  on  the  outskirts  of  Paddi- 
f ord  Common ;  and  the  only  sound  likely  to  disturb  the  seren- 
ity of  the  feminine  party  assembled  there,  was  the  occasional 
buzz  of  intrusive  wasps,  apparently  mistaking  each  lady's 
head  for  a  sugar-basin.  No  sugar-basin  was  visible  in  Mrs. 
Linnet's  parlor,  for  the  time  of  tea  was  not  yet,  and  the  round 
table  was  littered  with  books  which  the  ladies  were  covering 
with  black  canvas  as  a  re-enforcement  of  the  new  Paddiford 
Lending  Library.  Miss  Linnet,  whose  manuscript  was  the 
neatest  type  of  zigzag,  was  seated  at  a  small  table  apart,  writ- 
ing on  green  paper  tickets,  which  were  to  be  pasted  on  the 
covers.  Miss  Linnet  had  other  accomplishments  besides  that 
of  a  neat  manuscript,  and  an  index  to  some  of  them  might  be 


226  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

found  in  the  ornaments  of  the  room.  She  had  always  com- 
bined a  love  of  serious  and  poetical  reading  with  her  skill  in 
fancy-work,  and  the  neatly  bound  copies  of  Dry  den's  "Vir- 
gil," Hannah  More's  "Sacred  Dramas,"  Falconer's  "Ship- 
wreck, "  Mason  "  On  Self-knowledge, "  "  Easselas, "  and  Burke 
"On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  which  were  the  chief  orna- 
ments of  the  bookcase,  were  all  inscribed  with  her  name,  and 
had  been  bought  with  her  pocket-money  when  she  was  in  her 
teens.  It  must  have  been  at  least  fifteen  years  since  the  lat- 
est of  those  purchases,  but  Miss  Linnet's  skill  in  fancy-work 
appeared  to  have  gone  through  more  numerous  phases  than 
her  literary  taste ;  for  the  japanned  boxes,  the  alum  and  seal- 
ing-wax baskets,  the  fan-dolls,  the  "  transferred  "  landscapes 
on  the  fire  screens,  and  the  recent  bouquets  of  wax-flowers, 
showed  a  disparity  in  freshness  which  made  them  referable  to 
widely  different  periods.  Wax-flowers  presuppose  delicate 
fingers  and  robust  patience,  but  there  are  still  many  points  of 
mind  and  person  which  they  leave  vague  and  problematic ;  so 
I  must  tell  you  that  Miss  Linnet  had  dark  ringlets,  a  sallow 
complexion,  and  an  amiable  disposition.  As  to  her  features, 
there  was  not  much  to  criticise  in  them,  for  she  had  little 
nose,  less  lip,  and  no  eyebrow;  and  as  to  her  intellect,  her 
friend  Mrs.  Pettifer  often  said:  "She  didn't  know  a  more 
sensible  person  to  talk  to  than  Mary  Linnet.  There  was  no 
one  she  liked  better  to  come  and  take  a  quiet  cup  of  tea  with 
her,  and  read  a  little  of  Klopstock's  '  Messiah.'  Mary  Lin- 
net had  often  told  her  a  great  deal  of  her  mind  when  they 
were  sitting  together :  she  said  there  were  many  things  to  bear 
in  every  condition  of  life,  and  nothing  should  induce  her  to 
marry  without  a  prospect  of  happiness.  Once,  when  Mrs. 
Pettifer  admired  her  wax-flowers,  she  said,  'Ah,  Mrs.  Petti- 
fer, think  of  the  beauties  of  nature ! '  She  always  spoke  very 
prettily,  did  Mary  Linnet;  very  different,  indeed,  from  Re- 
becca." 

Miss  Rebecca  Linnet,  indeed,  was  not  a  general  favorite. 
While  most  people  thought  it  a  pity  that  a  sensible  woman 
like  Mary  had  not  found  a  good  husband — and  even  her  fe- 
male friends  said  nothing  more  ill-natured  of  her,  than  that 
her  face  was  like  a  piece  of  putty  with  two  Scotch  pebbles 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  227 

stuck  in  it — Rebecca  was  always  spoken  of  sarcastically,  and 
it  was  a  customary  kind  of  banter  with  young  ladies  to  recom- 
mend her  as  a  wife  to  any  gentleman  they  happened  to  be  flirt- 
ing with — her  fat,  her  finery,  and  her  thick  ankles  sufficing  to 
give  piquancy  to  the  joke,  notwithstanding  the  absence  of 
novelty.  Miss  Rebecca,  however,  possessed  the  accomplish- 
ment of  music,  and  her  singing  of  "  Oh  no,  we  never  mention 
her,"  and  "  The  Soldier's  Tear,"  was  so  desirable  an  accession 
to  the  pleasures  of  a  tea-party  that  no  one  cared  to  offend  her, 
especially  as  Rebecca  had  a  high  spirit  of  her  own,  and  in 
spite  of  her  expansively  rounded  contour,  had  a  particularly 
sharp  tongue.  Her  reading  had  been  more  extensive  than 
her  sister's,  embracing  most  of  the  fiction  in  Mr.  Procter's 
circulating  library ;  and  nothing  but  an  acquaintance  with  the 
course  of  her  studies  could  afford  a  clew  to  the  rapid  transi- 
tions in  her  dress,  which  were  suggested  by  the  style  of  beauty, 
whether  sentimental,  sprightly,  or  severe,  possessed  by  the 
heroine  of  the  three  volumes  actually  in  perusal.  A  piece  of 
lace,  which  drooped  round  the  edge  of  her  white  bonnet  one 
week,  had  been  rejected  by  the  next;  and  her  cheeks,  which, 
on  Whitsunday,  loomed  through  a  Turnerian  haze  of  network, 
were,  on  Trinity  Sunday,  seen  reposing  in  distinct  red  out- 
line on  her  shelving  bust,  like  the  sun  on  a  fog-bank.  The 
black  velvet,  meeting  with  a  crystal  clasp,  which  one  evening 
encircled  her  head,  had  on  another  descended  to  her  neck,  and 
on  a  third  to  her  wrist,  suggesting  to  an  active  imagination 
either  a  magical  contraction  of  the  ornament,  or  a  fearful  ratio 
of  expansion  in  Miss  Rebecca's  person.  With  this  constant 
application  of  art  to  dress,  she  could  have  had  little  time  for 
fancy-work,  even  if  she  had  not  been  destitute  of  her  sister's 
taste  for  that  delightful  and  truly  feminine  occupation.  And 
here,  at  least,  you  perceive  the  justice  of  the  Milby  opinion  as 
to  the  relative  suitability  of  the  two  Miss  Linnets  for  matri- 
mony. When  a  man  is  happy  enough  to  win  the  affections  of 
a  sweet  girl,  who  can  soothe  his  cares  with  crochet,  and  re- 
spond to  all  his  most  cherished  ideas  with  beaded  urn-rugs 
and  chair-covers  in  German  wool,  he  has,  at  least,  a  guaranty 
of  domestic  comfort,  whatever  trials  may  await  him  out  of 
doors.  What  a  resource  it  is  under  fatigue  and  irritation  to 


228  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

have  your  drawing-room  well  supplied  with  small  mats,  which 
would  always  be  ready  if  you  ever  wanted  to  set  anything  oil 
them !  And  what  styptic  for  a  bleeding  heart  can  equal  copi- 
ous squares  of  crochet,  which  are  useful  for  slipping  down  the 
moment  you  touch  them?  How  our  fathers  managed  without 
crochet  is  the  wonder;  but  I  believe  some  small  and  feeble 
substitute  existed  in  their  time  under  the  name  of  "tatting." 
Eebecca  Linnet,  however,  had  neglected  tatting  as  well  as 
other  forms  of  fancy-work.  At  school,  to  be  sure,  she  had 
spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  acquiring  flower-painting,  accord- 
ing to  the  ingenious  method  then  fashionable,  of  applying  the 
shapes  of  leaves  and  flowers  cut  out  in  cardboard,  and  scrub- 
bing a  brush  over  the  surface  thus  conveniently  marked  out; 
but  even  the  spill-cases  and  hand-screens  which  were  her  last 
half-year's  performances  in  that  way  were  not  considered  emi- 
nently successful,  and  had  long  been  consigned  to  the  retire- 
ment of  the  best  bedroom.  Thus  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
family  unlikeness  between  Rebecca  and  her  sister,  and  I  am 
afraid  there  was  also  a  little  family  dislike;  but  Mary's  dis- 
approval had  usually  been  kept  imprisoned  behind  her  thin 
lips,  for  Rebecca  was  not  only  of  a  headstrong  disposition,  but 
was  her  mother's  pet;  the  old  lady  being  herself  stout,  and 
preferring  a  more  showy  style  of  cap  than  she  could  prevail 
on  her  daughter  Mary  to  make  up  for  her. 

But  I  have  been  describing  Miss  Rebecca  as  she  was  in 
former  days  only,  for  her  appearance  this  evening,  as  she  sits 
pasting  on  the  green  tickets,  is  in  striking  contrast  with  what 
it  was  three  or  four  months  ago.  Her  plain  gray  gingham 
dress  and  plain  white  collar  could  never  have  belonged  to  her 
wardrobe  before  that  date;  and  though  she  is  not  reduced  in 
size,  and  her  brown  hair  will  do  nothing  but  hang  in  crisp 
ringlets  down  her  large  cheeks,  there  is  a  change  in  her  air 
and  expression  which  seems  to  shed  a  softened  light  over  her 
person,  and  make  her  look  like  a  peony  in  the  shade,  instead 
of  the  same  flower  flaunting  in  a  parterre  in  the  hot  sunlight. 

No  one  could  deny  that  Evangelicalism  had  wrought  a 
change  for  the  better  in  Rebecca  Linnet's  person — not  even 
Miss  Pratt,  the  thin  stiff  lady  in  spectacles,  seated  opposite 
to  her,  who  always  had  a  peculiar  repulsion  for  "females  with 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  229 

a  gross  habit  of  body. "  Miss  Pratt  was  an  old  maid ;  but 
that  is  a  no  more  definite  description  than  if  I  had  said  she 
was  in  the  autumn  of  life.  Was  it  autumn  when  the  orchards 
are  fragrant  with  apples,  or  autumn  when  the  oaks  are  brown, 
or  autumn  when  the  last  yellow  leaves  are  fluttering  in  the 
chill  breeze?  The  young  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  told  you 
that  the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids ;  but  the  Miss  Linnets 
were  to  Miss  Pratt  what  the  apple-scented  September  is  to  the 
bare,  nipping  days  of  late  November.  The  Miss  Linnets  were 
in  that  temperate  zone  of  old-maidism,  when  a  woman  will  not 
say  but  that  if  a  man  of  suitable  years  and  character  were  to 
offer  himself,  she  might  be  induced  to  tread  the  remainder  of 
life's  vale  in  company  with  him;  Miss  Pratt  was  in  that  arctic 
region  where  a  woman  is  confident  that  at  no  time  of  life  would 
she  have  consented  to  give  up  her  liberty,  and  that  she  has 
never  seen  the  man  whom  she  would  engage  to  honor  and 
obey.  If  the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids,  they  were  old 
maids  with  natural  ringlets  and  embonpoint,  not  to  say  obesity ; 
Miss  Pratt  was  an  old  maid  with  a  cap,  a  braided  "  front, "  a 
backbone  and  appendages.  Miss  Pratt  was  the  one  blue- 
stocking of  Milby,  possessing,  she  said,  no  less  than  five  hun- 
dred volumes,  competent,  as  her  brother  the  doctor  often 
observed,  to  conduct  a  conversation  on  any  topic  whatever, 
and  occasionally  dabbling  a  little  in  authorship,  though  it  was 
understood  that  she  had  never  put  forth  the  full  powers  of  her 
mind  in  print.  Her  "  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  on  his  En- 
trance into  Life, "  and  "  De  Courcy,  or  the  Rash  Promise,  a 
Tale  for  Youth,"  were  mere  trifles  which  she  had  been  in- 
duced to  publish  because  they  were  calculated  for  popular 
utility,  but  they  were  nothing  to  what  she  had  for  years  had 
by  her  in  manuscript.  Her  latest  production  had  been  Six 
Stanzas,  addressed  to  the  Rev.  Edgar  Tryan,  printed  on  glazed 
paper  with  a  neat  border,  and  beginning,  "  Forward,  young 
wrestler  for  the  truth !  " 

Miss  Pratt  having  kept  her  brother's  house  during  his  long 
widowhood,  his  daughter,  Miss  Eliza,  had  had  the  advantage 
of  being  educated  by  her  aunt,  and  thus  of  imbibing  a  very 
strong  antipathy  to  all  that  remarkable  woman's  tastes  and 
opinions.  The  silent  handsome  girl  of  two-and-twenty  who 


230  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

is  covering  the  "Memoirs  of  Felix  Neff,"  is  Miss  Eliza  Pratt; 
and  the  small  elderly  lady  in  dowdy  clothing,  who  is  also 
working  diligently,  is  Mrs  Pettifer,  a  superior-minded  widow, 
much  valued  in  Milby,  being  such  a  very  respectable  person  to 
have  in  the  house  in  case  of  illness,  and  of  quite  too  good  a 
family  to  receive  any  money-payment — you  could  always  send 
her  garden-stuff  that  would  make  her  ample  amends.  Miss 
Pratt  has  enough  to  do  in  commenting  on  the  heap  of  volumes 
before  her,  feeling  it  a  responsibility  entailed  on  her  by  her 
great  powers  of  mind  to  leave  nothing  without  the  advan- 
tage of  her  opinion.  Whatever  was  good  must  be  sprinkled 
with  the  chrism  of  her  approval;  whatever  was  evil  must  be 
blighted  by  her  condemnation. 

"  Upon  my  word, "  she  said,  in  a  deliberate  high  voice,  as  if 
she  were  dictating  to  an  amanuensis,  "  it  is  a  most  admirable 
selection  of  works  for  popular  reading,  this  that  our  excellent 
Mr.  Tryan  has  made.  I  do  not  know  whether,  if  the  task 
had  been  confided  to  me,  I  could  have  made  a  selection,  com- 
bining in  a  higher  degree  religious  instruction  and  edification 
with  a  due  admixture  of  the  purer  species  of  amusement. 
This  story  of  'Father  Clement'  is  a  library  in  itself  on  the 
errors  of  Romanism.  I  have  ever  considered  fiction  a  suitable 
form  for  conveying  moral  and  religious  instruction,  as  I  have 
shown  in  my  little  work  'De  Courcy, '  which,  as  a  very  clever 
writer  in  the  Crompton  Argus  said  at  the  time  of  its  appear- 
ance, is  the  light  vehicle  of  a  weighty  moral." 

"  One  'ud  think,"  said  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  also  had  her  spec- 
tacles on,  but  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  what  the  others 
were  doing,  "  there  didn't  want  much  to  drive  people  away 
from  a  religion  as  makes  'em  walk  barefoot  over  stone  floors, 
like  that  girl  in  '  Father  Clement ' — sending  the  blood  up  to 
the  head  frightful.  Anybody  might  see  that  was  an  unnat'ral 
creed. " 

"  Yes, "  said  Miss  Pratt,  "  but  asceticism  is  not  the  root  of  the 
error,  as  Mr.  Tryan  was  telling  us  the  other  evening — it  is  the 
denial  of  the  great  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith.  Much 
as  I  had  reflected  on  all  subjects  in  the  course  of  my  life,  I 
am  indebted  to  Mr.  Tryan  for  opening  my  eyes  to  the  full  im- 
portance of  that  cardinal  doctrine  of  the  Reformation.  From 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  231 

a  child  I  had  a  deep  sense  of  religion,  but  in  my  early  days 
the  Gospel  light  was  obscured  in  the  English  Church,  notwith- 
standing the  possession  of  our  incomparable  Liturgy,  than 
which  I  know  no  human  composition  more  faultless  and  sub- 
lime. As  I  tell  Eliza,  I  was  not  blest  as  she  is  at  the  age  of 
two-and-t'.venty,  in  knowing  a  clergyman  who  unites  all  that 
is  great  and  admirable  in  intellect  with  the  highest  spiritual 
gifts.  I  am  no  contemptible  judge  of  a  man's  acquirements, 
and  I  assure  you  I  have  tested  Mr.  Tryan's  by  questions  which 
are  a  pretty  severe  touchstone.  It  is  true,  I  sometimes  carry 
him  a  little  beyond  the  depth  of  the  other  listeners.  Pro- 
found learning,"  continued  Miss  Pratt,  shutting  her  spectacles, 
and  tapping  them  on  the  book  before  her,  "  has  not  many  to 
estimate  it  in  Milby." 

"Miss  Pratt,"  said  Rebecca,  "will  you  please  give  me 
'  Scott's  Force  of  Truth '  ?  There — that  small  book  lying 
against  the  '  Life  of  Legh  Richmond. ' ' 

"That's  a  book  I'm  very  fond  of — the  '  Life  of  Legh  Rich- 
mond,'" said  Mrs.  Linnet.  "He  found  out  all  about  that 
woman  at  Tutbury  as  pretended  to  live  without  eating.  Stuff 
and  nonsense !  " 

Mrs.  Linnet  had  become  a  reader  of  religious  books  since 
Mr.  Tryan's  advent,  and  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  confining 
her  perusal  to  the  purely  secular  portions,  which  bore  a  very 
small  proportion  to  the  whole,  she  could  make  rapid  progress 
through  a  large  number  of  volumes.  On  taking  up  the  biog- 
raphy of  a  celebrated  preacher,  she  immediately  turned  to  the 
end  to  see  what  disease  he  died  of;  and  if  his  legs  swelled,  as 
her  own  occasionally  did,  she  felt  a  stronger  interest  in  ascer- 
taining any  earlier  facts  in  the  history  of  the  dropsical  divine 
— whether  he  had  ever  fallen  off  a  stage-coach,  whether  he  had 
married  more  than  one  wife,  and,  in  general,  any  adventures 
or  repartees  recorded  of  him  previous  to  the  epoch  of  his  con- 
version. She  then  glanced  over  the  letters  and  diary,  and 
wherever  there  was  a  predominance  of  Zion,  the  River  of  Life, 
and  notes  of  exclamation,  she  turned  over  to  the  next  page; 
but  any  passage  in  which  she  saw  such  promising  nouns  as 
'"smallpox,"  "pony,"  or  "boots  and  shoes,"  at  once  arrested 
Ver. 


232  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  It  is  half -past  six  now, ''  said  Miss  Linnet,  looking  at  her 
watch  as  the  servant  appeared  with  the  tea-tray.  "  I  suppose 
the  delegates  are  come  back  by  this  time.  If  Mr.  Tryan  had 
not  so  kindly  promised  to  call  and  let  us  know,  I  should  hardly 
rest  without  walking  to  Mil  by  myself  to  know  what  answer 
they  have  brought  back.  It  is  a  great  privilege  for  us,  Mr. 
Tryan  living  at  Mrs.  Wagstaff's,  for  he  is  often  able  to  take 
us  on  his  way  backward  and  forward  into  the  town." 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  another  man  in  the  world  who  has  been 
brought  up  as  Mr.  Tryan  has,  that  would  choose  to  live  in 
those  small  close  rooms  on  the  common,  among  heaps  of  dirty 
cottages,  for  the  sake  of  being  near  the  poor  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Pettifer.  "I'm  afraid  he  hurts  his  health  by  it;  he 
looks  to  me  far  from  strong." 

"  Ah, "  said  Miss  Pratt,  "  I  understand  he  is  of  a  highly  re- 
spectable family  indeed,  in  Huntingdonshire.  I  heard  him 
myself  speak  of  his  father's  carriage — quite  incidentally,  you 
know — and  Eliza  tells  me  what  very  fine  cambric  handker- 
chiefs he  uses.  My  eyes  are  not  good  enough  to  see  such 
things,  but  I  know  what  breeding  is  as  well  as  most  people, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  Mr.  Tryan  is  quite  comme  ilfaw,  to 
use  a  French  expression." 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  him  better  nor  use  fine  cambric  i'  this 
place,  where  there's  such  washing,  it's  a  shame  to  be  seen," 
said  Mrs.  Linnet;  "he'll  get  'eni  tore  to  pieces.  Good  lawn 
'ud  be  far  better.  I  saw  what  a  color  his  linen  looked  at  the 
sacrament  last  Sunday.  Mary's  making  him  a  black  silk  case 
to  hold  his  bands,  but  I  told  her  she'd  more  need  wash  'em 
for  him." 

"  O  mother !  "  said  Rebecca,  with  a  solemn  severity,  "  pray 
don't  think  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  and  linen,  when  we  are 
talking  of  such  a  man.  And  at  this  moment,  too,  when  he  is 
perhaps  having  to  bear  a  heavy  blow.  We  don't  know  but 
wickedness  may  have  triumphed,  and  Mr.  Prendergast  may 
have  consented  to  forbid  the  lecture.  There  have  been  dis- 
pensations quite  as  mysterious,  and  Satan  is  evidently  putting 
forth  all  his  strength  to  resist  the  entrance  of  the  Gospel  into 
Milby  Church." 

"  You  niver  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that,  my  dear, "  said 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  233 

Mrs.  Linnet,  who  accepted  all  religious  phrases,  but  was  ex- 
tremely rationalistic  in  her  interpretation;  "for  if  iver  Old 
Harry  appeared  in  a  human  form,  it's  that  Dempster.  It  was 
all  through  him  as  we  got  cheated  out  o'  Pye's  Croft,  making 
out  as  the  title  wasn't  good.  Such  lawyer's  villaay!  As 
if  paying  good  money  wasn't  title  enough  to  anything.  If 
your  father  as  is  dead  and  gone  had  been  worthy  to  know  it! 
But  he'll  have  a  fall  some  day,  Dempster  will.  Mark  my 
words." 

"  Ah,  out  of  his  carriage,  you  mean, "  said  Miss  Pratt,  who, 
in  the  movement  occasioned  by  the  clearing  of  the  table,  had 
lost  the  first  part  of  Mrs.  Linnet's  speech.  "  It  certainly  is 
alarming  to  see  him  driving  home  from  Rotherby,  flogging  his 
galloping  horse  like  a  madman.  My  brother  has  often  said 
he  expected  every  Thursday  evening  to  be  called  in  to  set  some 
of  Dempster's  bones;  but  I  suppose  he  may  drop  that  expec- 
tation now,  for  we  are  given  to  understand  from  good  author- 
ity that  he  has  forbidden  his  wife  to  call  my  brother  in  again 
either  to  herself  or  her  mother.  He  swears  no  Tryanite  doc- 
tor shall  attend  his  family.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
Pilgrim  was  called  in  to  Mrs.  Dempster's  mother  the  other 
day." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Raynor!  she's  glad  to  do  anything  for  the  sake 
of  peace  and  quietness,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer ;  "  but  it's  no  trifle 
at  her  time  of  life  to  part  with  a  doctor  who  knows  her  con- 
stitution." 

"  What  trouble  that  poor  woman  has  to  bear  in  her  old 
age !  "  said  Mary  Linnet,  "  to  see  her  daughter  leading  such 
a  life! — an  only  daughter,  too,  that  she  dotes  on." 

"  Yes,  indeed, "  said  Miss  Pratt.  "  We,  of  course,  know 
more  about  it  than  most  people,  my  brother  having  attended 
the  family  so  many  years.  For  my  part,  I  never  thought 
well  of  the  marriage ;  and  I  endeavored  to  dissuade  my  brother 
when  Mrs.  Raynor  asked  him  to  give  Janet  away  at  the  wed- 
ding. ( If  you  will  take  my  advice,  Richard, '  I  said,  '  you 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  marriage. '  And  he  has  seen 
the  justice  of  my  opinion  since.  Mrs.  Raynor  herself  was 
against  the  connection  at  first ;  but  she  always  spoiled  Janet ; 
and  I  fear,  too,  she  was  won  over  by  a  foolish  pride  in  hav- 


234  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ing  her  daughter  marry  a  professional  man.  I  fear  it  was 
so.  No  one  but  myself,  I  think,  foresaw  the  extent  of  the 
evil." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "Janet  had  nothing  to  look  to 
but  being  a  governess ;  and  it  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Kaynor  to 
have  to  work  at  millinering — a  woman  well  brought  up,  and 
her  husband  a  man  who  held  his  head  as  high  as  any  man  in 
Thurston.  And  it  isn't  everybody  that  sees  everything  fifteen 
years  beforehand.  Robert  Dempster  was  the  cleverest  man  in 
Milby;  and  there  weren't  many  young  men  fit  to  talk  to 
Janet. " 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities, "  said  Miss  Pratt,  choosing  to 
ignore  Mrs.  Pettifer's  slight  sarcasm,  "for  I  certainly  did 
consider  Janet  Raynor  the  most  promising  young  woman  of 
my  acquaintance; — a  little  too  much  lifted  up,  perhaps,  by 
her  superior  education,  and  too  much  given  to  satire,  but  able 
to  express  herself  very  well  indeed  about  any  book  I  recom- 
mended to  her  perusal.  There  is  no  young  woman  in  Milby 
now  who  can  be  compared  with  what  Janet  was  when  she  was 
married,  either  in  mind  or  person.  I  consider  Miss  Landor 
far,  far  below  her.  Indeed,  I  cannot  say  much  for  the  men- 
tal superiority  of  the  young  ladies  in  our  first  families.  They 
are  superficial — very  superficial." 

"  She  made  the  handsomest  bride  that  ever  came  out  of 
Milby  Church,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "Such  a  very  fine 
figure!  and  it  showed  off  her  white  poplin  so  well.  And  what 
a  pretty  smile  Janet  always  had !  Poor  thing,  she  keeps  that 
now  for  all  her  old  friends.  I  never  see  her  but  she  has  some- 
thing pretty  to  say  to  me — living  in  the  same  street,  you  know, 
I  can't  help  seeing  her  often,  though  I've  never  been  to  the 
house  since  Dempster  broke  out  on  me  in  one  of  his  drunken 
fits.  She  comes  to  me  sometimes,  poor  thing,  looking  so 
strange,  anybody  passing  her  in  the  street  may  see  plain 
enough  what's  the  matter;  but  she's  always  got  some  little 
good-natured  plan  in  her  head  for  all  that.  Only  last  night 
when  I  met  her,  I  saw  five  yards  off  she  wasn't  fit  to  be  out; 
but  she  had  a  basin  in  her  hand,  full  of  something  she  was 
carrying  to  Sally  Martin,  the  deformed  girl  that's  in  a  con- 
sumption. " 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  235 

"But  she  is  just  as  bitter  against  Mr.  Tryan  as  her  hus- 
band is,  I  understand, "  said  Rebecca.  "  Her  heart  is  very 
much  set  against  the  truth,  for  I  understand  she  bought  Mr. 
Tryan 's  sermons  on  purpose  to  ridicule  them  to  Mrs.  Crewe." 

"  Well,  poor  thing, "  said  Mrs.  Pettif er,  "  you  know  she 
stands  up  for  everything  her  husband  says  and  does.  She 
never  will  admit  to  anybody  that  he's  not  a  good  husband." 

"  That  is  her  pride, "  said  Miss  Pratt.  "  She  married  him 
in  opposition  to  the  advice  of  her  best  friends,  and  now  she  is 
not  willing  to  admit  that  she  was  wrong.  Why,  even  to  my 
brother — and  a  medical  attendant,  you  know,  can  hardly  fail 
to  be  acquainted  with  family  secrets — she  has  always  pre- 
tended to  have  the  highest  respect  for  her  husband's  qualities. 
Poor  Mrs.  Raynor,  however,  is  well  aware  that  every  one 
knows  the  real  state  of  things.  Latterly,  she  has  not  even 
avoided  the  subject  with  me.  The  very  last  time  I  called  on 
her  she  said,  '  Have  you  been  to  see  my  poor  daughter? '  and 
burst  into  tears." 

"Pride  or  no  pride,"  said  Mrs.  Pettif  er,  "I  shall  always 
stand  up  for  Janet  Dempster.  She  sat  up  with  me  night  after 
night  when  I  had  that  attack  of  rheumatic  fever  six  years  ago. 
There's  great  excuses  for  her.  When  a  woman  can't  think  of 
her  husband  coming  home  without  trembling,  it's  enough  to 
make  her  drink  something  to  blunt  her  feelings — and  no  chil- 
dren cither,  to  keep  her  from  it.  You  and  me  might  do  the 
same,  if  we  were  in  her  place." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Pettif  er, "  said  Miss  Pratt. 
"  Under  no  circumstances  can  I  imagine  myself  resorting  to  a 
practice  so  degrading.  A  woman  should  find  support  in  her 
own  strength  of  mind." 

"  I  think, "  said  Rebecca,  who  considered  Miss  Pratt  still 
very  blind  in  spiritual  things,  notwithstanding  her  assumption 
of  enlightenment,  "she  will  find  poor  support  if  she  trusts 
only  to  her  own  strength.  She  must  seek  aid  elsewhere  than 
in  herself." 

Happily  the  removal  of  the  tea-things  just  then  created  a 
little  confusion,  which  aided  Miss  Pratt  to  repress  her  resent- 
ment at  Rebecca's  presumption  in  correcting  her — a  person 
like  Rebecca  Linnet!  who  six  months  ago  was  as  flighty  and 


236  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

vain  a  woman  as  Miss  Pratt  had  ever  known — so  very  uncon- 
scious of  her  unfortunate  person ! 

The  ladies  had  scarcely  been  seated  at  their  work  another 
hour,  when  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  clouds  that  flecked 
the  sky  to  the  very  zenith  were  every  moment  taking  on  a 
brighter  gold.  The  gate  of  the  little  garden  opened,  and 
Miss  Linnet,  seated  at  her  small  table  near  the  window,  saw 
Mr.  Tryan  enter. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Tryan, "  she  said,  and  her  pale  cheek  was 
lighted  up  with  a  little  blush  that  would  have  made  her  look 
more  attractive  to  almost  any  one  except  Miss  Eliza  Pratt, 
whose  fine  gray  eyes  allowed  few  things  to  escape  her  silent 
observation.  "Mary  Linnet  gets  more  and  more  in  love  with 
Mr.  Tryan,"  thought  Miss  Eliza;  "  it  is  really  pitiable  to  see 
such  feelings  in  a  woman  of  her  age,  with  those  old-maidish 
little  ringlets.  I  dare  say  she  flatters  herself  Mr.  Tryan  may 
fall  in  love  with  her,  because  he  makes  her  useful  among  the 
poor."  At  the  same  time,  Miss  Eliza,  as  she  bent  her  hand- 
some head  and  large  cannon  curls  with  apparent  calmness  over 
her  work,  felt  a  considerable  internal  flutter  when  she  heard 
the  knock  at  the  door.  Rebecca  had  less  self-command.  She 
felt  too  much  agitated  to  go  on  with  her  pasting,  and  clutched 
the  leg  of  the  table  to  counteract  the  trembling  in  her  hands. 

Poor  women's  hearts!  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  laugh 
at  you,  and  make  cheap  jests  on  your  susceptibility  toward 
the  clerical  sex,  as  if  it  had  nothing  deeper  or  more  lovely  in 
it  than  the  mere  vulgar  angling  for  a  husband.  Even  in  these 
enlightened  days,  many  a  curate  who,  considered  abstractedly, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  sleek  bimanous  animal  in  a  white  neck- 
cloth, with  views  more  or  less  Anglican,  and  furtively  addicted 
to  the  flute,  is  adored  by  a  girl  who  has  coarse  brothers,  or  by 
a  solitary  woman  who  would  like  to  be  a  helpmate  in  good 
works  beyond  her  own  means,  simply  because  he  seems  to 
them  the  model  of  refinement  and  of  public  usefulness.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  in  Milby  society,  such  as  I  have  told  you 
it  was  a  very  long  while  ago,  a  zealous  evangelical  clergyman, 
aged  thirty-three,  called  forth  all  the  little  agitations  that  be- 
long to  the  divine  necessity  of  loving,  implanted  in  the  Miss 
Linnets,  with  their  seven  or  eight  lustrums  and  their  unfash- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  237 

ionable  ringlets,  no  less  than  in  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  with  her 
youthful  bloom  and  her  ample  cannon  curls. 

But  Mr.  Tryan  has  entered  the  room,  and  the  strange  light 
from  the  golden  sky  falling  on  his  light-brown  hair,  which  is 
brushed  high  up  round  his  head,  makes  it  look  almost  like  an 
aureole.  His  gray  eyes,  too,  shine  with  unwonted  brilliancy 
this  evening.  They  were  not  remarkable  eyes,  but  they  ac- 
corded completely  in  their  changing  light  with  the  changing 
expression  of  his  person,  which  indicated  the  paradoxical  char- 
acter often  observable  in  a  large-limbed  sanguine  blond;  at 
once  mild  and  irritable,  gentle  and  overbearing,  indolent  and 
resolute,  self-conscious  and  dreamy.  Except  that  the  well- 
filled  lips  had  something  of  the  artificially  compressed  look 
which  is  often  the  sign  of  a  struggle  to  keep  the  dragon  under- 
most, and  that  the  complexion  was  rather  pallid,  giving  the 
idea  of  imperfect  health,  Mr.  Try  an' s  face  in  repose  was  that 
of  an  ordinary  whiskerless  blond,  and  it  seemed  difficult  to 
refer  a  certain  air  of  distinction  about  him  to  anything  in  par- 
ticular, unless  it  were  his  delicate  hands  and  well-shapen  feet. 

It  was  a  great  anomaly  to  the  Milby  mind  that  a  canting 
evangelical  parson,  who  would  take  tea  with  tradespeople,  and 
make  friends  of  vulgar  women  like  the  Linnets,  should  have 
so  much  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  and  be  so  little  like  the  splay- 
footed Mr.  Stickney  of  Salem,  to  whom  he  approximated  so 
closely  in  doctrine.  And  this  want  of  correspondence  between 
the  physique  and  the  creed  had  excited  no  less  surprise  in  the 
larger  town  of  Laxeter,  where  Mr.  Tryan  had  formerly  held  a 
curacy ;  for  of  the  two  other  Low  Church  clergymen  in  the 
neighborhood,  one  was  a  Welshman  of  globose  figure  and  unc- 
tuous complexion,  and  the  other  a  man  of  atrabiliar  aspect, 
with  lank  black  hair,  and  a  redundance  of  limp  cravat — in 
fact,  the  sort  of  thing  you  might  expect  in  men  who  distrib- 
uted the  publications  of  the  Religious  Tract  Society,  and  in- 
troduced Dissenting  hymns  into  the  Church. 

Mr.  Tryan  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Linnet,  bowed  with  rather 
a  preoccupied  air  to  the  other  ladies,  and  seated  himself  in  the 
large  horse-hair  easy-chair  which  had  been  drawn  forward  for 
him,  while  the  ladies  ceased  from  their  work,  and  fixed  their 
eyes  on  him,  awaiting  the  news  he  had  to  tell  them. 


238  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  It  seems, "  he  began,  in  a  low  and  silvery  tone,  "  I  need  a 
lesson  of  patience;  there  has  been  something  wrong  in  my 
thought  or  action  about  this  evening  lecture.  I  have  been  too 
much  bent  on  doing  good  to  Milby  after  my  own  plan — too 
reliant  on  my  own  wisdom." 

Mr.  Tryan  paused.  He  was  struggling  against  inward  irri- 
tation. 

"The  delegates  are  come  back,  then?"  "Has  Mr.  Pren- 
dergast  given  way?"  "Has  Dempster  succeeded?" — were 
the  eager  questions  of  three  ladies  at  once. 

"  Yes ;  the  town  is  in  an  uproar.  As  we  were  sitting  in 
Mr.  Landor's  drawing-room  we  heard  a  loud  cheering,  and 
presently  Mr.  Thrupp,  the  clerk  at  the  bank,  who  had  been 
waiting  at  the  Red  Lion  to  hear  the  result,  came  to  let  us 
know.  He  said  Dempster  had  been  making  a  speech  to  the 
mob  out  of  the  window.  They  were  distributing  drink  to  the 
people,  and  hoisting  placards  in  great  letters, — '  Down  with 
the  Tryanites ! '  '  Down  with  cant ! '  They  had  a  hideous 
caricature  of  me  being  tripped-up  and  pitched  head-foremost 
out  of  the  pulpit.  Good  old  Mr.  Landor  would  insist  on  send- 
ing me  round  in  the  carriage;  he  thought  I  should  not  be  safe 
from  the  mob ;  but  I  got  down  at  the  Crossways.  The  row 
was  evidently  preconcerted  by  Dempster  before  he  set  out. 
He  made  sure  of  succeeding." 

Mr.  Try  an' s  utterance  had  been  getting  rather  louder  and 
more  rapid  in  the  course  of  this  speech,  and  he  now  added,  in 
the  energetic  chest-voice,  which,  both  in  and  out  of  the  pulpit, 
alternated  continually  with  his  more  silvery  notes — 

"  But  his  triumph  will  be  a  short  one.  If  he  thinks  he  can 
intimidate  me  by  obloquy  or  threats,  he  has  mistaken  the  man 
he  has  to  deal  with.  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues  will 
find  themselves  checkmated  after  all.  Mr.  Prendergast  has 
been  false  to  his  own  conscience  in  this  business.  He  knows 
as  well  as  I  do  that  he  is  throwing  away  the  souls  of  the  peo- 
ple by  leaving  things  as  they  are  in  the  parish.  But  I  shall 
appeal  to  the  Bishop — I  am  confident  of  his  sympathy." 

"  The  Bishop  will  be  coming  shortly,  I  suppose, "  said  Miss 
Pratt,  "  to  hold  a  confirmation?  " 

"  Yes ;    but  I  shall  write  to  him  at  once,  and  lay  the  case 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  239 

before  him.  Indeed,  I  must  hurry  away  now,  for  I  have 
many  matters  to  attend  to.  You,  ladies,  have  been  kindly 
helping  me  with  your  labors,  I  see,"  continued  Mr.  Tryan, 
politely,  glancing  at  the  canvas-covered  books  as  he  rose  from 
his  seat.  Then,  turning  to  Mary  Linnet :  "  Our  library  is 
really  getting  on,  I  think.  You  and  your  sister  have  quite  a 
heavy  task  of  distribution  now." 

Poor  Rebecca  felt  it  very  hard  to  bear  that  Mr.  Tryan  did 
not  turn  toward  her  too.  If  he  knew  how  much  she  entered 
into  his  feelings  about  the  lecture,  and  the  interest  she  took 
in  the  library.  Well!  perhaps  it  was  her  lot  to  be  overlooked 
— and  it  might  be  a  token  of  mercy.  Even  a  good  man  might 
not  always  know  the  heart  that  was  most  with  him.  But  the 
next  moment  poor  Mary  had  a  pang,  when  Mr.  Tryan  turned 
to  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  and  the  preoccupied  expression  of  his  face 
melted  into  that  beaming  timidity  with  which  a  man  almost 
always  addresses  a  pretty  woman. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you,  too,  Miss  Eliza,  for  seconding  me  so 
well  in  your  visits  to  Joseph  Mercer.  The  old  man  tells  me 
how  precious  he  finds  your  reading  to  him,  now  he  is  no  longer 
able  to  go  to  church. " 

Miss  Eliza  only  answered  by  a  blush,  which  made  her  look 
all  the  handsomer,  but  her  aunt  said — 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Tryan,  I  have  ever  inculcated  on  my  dear  Eliza 
the  importance  of  spending  her  leisure  in  being  useful  to  her 
fellow-creatures.  Your  example  and  instruction  have  been 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  system  which  I  have  always  pursued, 
though  we  are  indebted  to  you  for  a  clearer  view  of  the  motives 
that  should  actuate  us  in  our  pursuit  of  good  works.  Not  that 
I  can  accuse  myself  of  having  ever  had  a  self-righteous  spirit, 
but  my  humility  was  rather  instinctive  than  based  on  a  firm 
ground  of  doctrinal  knowledge,  such  as  you  so  admirably  im- 
part to  us." 

Mrs.  Linnet's  usual  entreaty  that  Mr.  Tryan  would  "have 
something — some  wine-and-water,  and  a  biscuit,"  was  just 
here  a  welcome  relief  from  the  necessity  of  answering  Miss 
Pratt's  oration. 

"Not  anything,  my  dear  Mrs.  Linnet,  thank  you.  You 
forget  what  a  Kechabite  I  am.  By  the  by,  when  I  went  this 


240  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

morning  to  see  a  poor  girl  in  Butcher's  Lane,  whom  I  had 
heard  of  as  being  in  a  consumption,  I  found  Mrs.  Dempster 
there.  I  had  often  met  her  in  the  street,  but  did  not  know  it 
was  Mrs.  Dempster.  It  seems  she  goes  among  the  poor  a 
good  deal.  She  is  really  an  interesting-looking  woman.  I 
was  quite  surprised,  for  I  have  heard  the  worst  account  of  her 
habits — that  she  is  almost  as  bad  as  her  husband.  She  went 
out  hastily  as  soon  as  I  entered.  But "  (apologetically)  "  I 
am  keeping  you  all  standing,  and  I  must  really  hurry  away. 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  you 
for  some  time ;  I  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  of  going  your 
way.  Good-evening,  good-evening." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MR.  TRTAN  was  right  in  saying  that  the  "  row  "  in  Milby 
had  been  preconcerted  by  Dempster.  The  placards  and  the 
caricature  were  prepared  before  the  departure  of  the  delegates ; 
and  it  had  been  settled  that  Mat  Paine,  Dempster's  clerk, 
should  ride  out  on  Thursday  morning  to  meet  them  at  Whit- 
low, the  last  place  where  they  would  change  horses,  that  he 
might  gallop  back  and  prepare  an  ovation  for  the  triumvirate 
in  case  of  their  success.  Dempster  had  determined  to  dine  at 
Whitlow :  so  that  Mat  Paine  was  in  Milby  again  two  hours 
before  the  entrance  of  the  delegates,  and  had  time  to  send  a 
whisper  up  the  back  streets  that  there  was  promise  of  a 
"  spree  "  in  the  Bridge  Way,  as  well  as  to  assemble  two  knots 
of  picked  men — one  to  feed  the  flame  of  orthodox  zeal  with 
gin-and- water,  at  the  Green  Man,  near  High  Street ;  the  other 
to  solidify  their  church  principles  with  heady  beer  at  the  Bear 
and  Ragged  Staff  in  the  Bridge  Way. 

The  Bridge  Way  was  an  irregular  straggling  street,  where 
the  town  fringed  off  raggedly  into  the  Whitlow  road :  rows  of 
new  red-brick  houses,  in  which  ribbon-looms  were  rattling  be- 
hind long  lines  of  window,  alternating  with  old,  half -thatched 
half-tiled  cottages — one  of  those  dismal  wide  streets  where 
dirt  and  misery  have  no  long  shadows  thrown  on  them  to 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  241 

soften  their  ugliness.  Here,  about  half -past  five  o'clock,  Silly 
Caleb,  an  idiot  well  known  in  Dog  Lane,  but  more  of  a  stranger 
in  the  Bridge  Way,  was  seen  slouching  along  with  a  string  of 
boys  hooting  at  his  heels;  presently  another  group,  for  the 
most  part  out  at  elbows,  came  briskly  in  the  same  direction, 
looking  round  them,  with  an  air  of  expectation ;  and  at  no  long 
interval,  Deb  Traunter,  in  a  pink  flounced  gown  and  floating 
ribbons,  was  observed  talking  with  great  affability  to  two  men 
in  seal-skin  caps  and  fustian,  who  formed  her  cortege.  The 
Bridge  Way  began  to  have  a  presentiment  of  something  in  the 
wind.  Phib  Cook  left  her  evening  wash-tub  and  appeared  at 
her  door  in  soapsuds,  a  bonnet- poke,  and  general  dampness; 
three  narrow-chested  ribbon-weavers,  in  rusty  black  streaked 
with  shreds  of  many-colored  silk,  sauntered  out  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets ;  and  Molly  Beale,  a  brawny  old  virago, 
descrying  wiry  Dame  Ricketts  peeping  out  from  her  entry, 
seized  the  opportunity  of  renewing  the  morning's  skirmish. 
In  short,  the  Bridge  Way  was  in  that  state  of  excitement 
which  is  understood  to  announce  a  "  demonstration "  on  the 
part  of  the  British  public ;  and  the  afflux  of  remote  townsmen 
increasing,  there  was  soon  so  large  a  crowd  that  it  was  time 
for  Bill  Powers,  a  plethoric  Goliath,  who  presided  over  the 
knot  of  beer-drinkers  at  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff,  to  issue 
forth  with  his  companions,  and,  like  the  enunciator  of  the  an- 
cient myth,  make  the  assemblage  distinctly  conscious  of  the 
common  sentiment  that  had  drawn  them  together.  The  ex- 
pectation of  the  delegates'  chaise,  added  to  the  fight  between 
Molly  Beale  and  Dame  Ricketts,  and  the  ill-advised  appear- 
ance of  a  lean  bull-terrier,  were  a  sufficient  safety-valve  to  the 
popular  excitement  during  the  remaining  quarter  of  an  hour ; 
at  the  end  of  which  the  chaise  was  seen  approaching  along  the 
Whitlow  road,  with  oak  boughs  ornamenting  the  horses'  heads ; 
and,  to  quote  the  account  of  this  interesting  scene  which  was 
sent  to  the  Rotherly  Guardian,  "  loud  cheers  immediately  tes- 
tified to  the  sympathy  of  the  honest  fellows  collected  there, 
with  the  public-spirited  exertions  of  their  fellow-townsmen." 
Bill  Powers,  whose  bloodshot  eyes,  bent  hat,  and  protuberant 
altitude,  marked  him  out  as  the  natural  leader  of  the  assem- 
blage, undertook  to  interpret  the  common  sentiment  by  stop- 


242  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ping  the  chaise,  advancing  to  the  door  with  raised  hat,  and 
begging  to  know  of  Mr.  Dempster,  whether  the  Rector  had 
forbidden  the  "  canting  lecture. " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dempster.  "Keep  up  a  jolly  good 
hurray." 

No  public  duty  could  have  been  more  easy  and  agreeable  to 
Mr.  Powers  and  his  associates,  and  the  chorus  swelled  all  the 
way  to  the  High  Street,  where,  by  a  mysterious  coincidence 
often  observable  in  these  spontaneous  "demonstrations,"  large 
placards  on  long  poles  were  observed  to  shoot  upward  from 
among  the  crowd,  principally  in  the  direction  of  Tucker's 
Lane,  where  the  Green  Man  was  situated.  One  bore,  "  Down 
with  the  Tryanites !  "  another,  "  No  Cant !  "  another,  "  Long 
live  our  venerable  Curate ! "  and  one  in  still  larger  letters, 
"  Sound  Church  Principles  and  no  Hypocrisy !  "  But  a  still 
more  remarkable  impromptu  was  a  huge  caricature  of  Mr. 
Tryan  in  gown  and  band,  with  an  enormous  aureole  of  yellow 
hair  and  upturned  eyes,  standing  on  the  pulpit  stairs  and  try- 
ing to  pull  down  old  Mr.  Crewe.  Groans,  yells,  and  hisses — 
hisses,  yells,  and  groans — only  stemmed  by  the  appearance  of 
another  caricature  representing  Mr.  Tryan  being  pitched  head- 
foremost from  the  pulpit  stairs  by  a  hand  which  the  artist, 
either  from  subtilty  of  intention  or  want  of  space,  had  left 
unindicated.  In  the  midst  of  the  tremendous  cheering  that 
saluted  this  piece  of  symbolical  art,  the  chaise  had  reached 
the  door  of  the  Red  Lion,  and  loud  cries  of  "  Dempster  for- 
ever !  "  with  a  feebler  cheer  now  and  then  for  Tomlinson  and 
Budd,  were  presently  responded  to  by  the  appearance  of  the 
public-spirited  attorney  at  the  large  upper  window,  where  also 
were  visible  a  little  in  the  background  the  small  sleek  head  of 
Mr.  Budd,  and  the  blinking  countenance  of  Mr.  Tomlinson. 

Mr.  Dempster  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  poked  his  head 
forward  with  a  butting  motion  by  way  of  bow.  A  storm  of 
cheers  subsided  at  last  into  dropping  sounds  of  "  Silence ! " 
"  Hear  him!  "  "  Go  it,  Dempster!  "  and  the  lawyer's  rasping 
voice  became  distinctly  audible. 

"Fellow-townsmen!  It  gives  us  the  sincerest  pleasure — I 
speak  for  my  respected  colleagues  as  well  as  myself — to  wit- 
ness these  strong  proofs  of  your  attachment  to  the  principles 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  243 

of  our  excellent  Church,  and  your  zeal  for  the  honor  of  our 
venerable  pastor.  But  it  is  no  more  than  I  expected  of  you. 
I  know  you  well.  I've  known  you  for  the  last  twenty  years 
to  be  as  honest  and  respectable  a  set  of  rate-payers  as  any  in 
this  county.  Your  hearts  are  sound  to  the  core!  No  man 
had  better  try  to  thrust  his  cant  and  hypocrisy  down  your 
throats.  You're  used  to  wash  them  with  liquor  of  a  better 
flavor.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  in  my  own  life,  and  I 
think  I  may  say  in  that  of  my  colleagues,  in  which  I  have  to 
tell  you  that  our  exertions  in  the  cause  of  sound  religion  and 
manly  morality  have  been  crowned  with  success.  Yes,  my 
fellow-townsmen!  I  have  the  gratification  of  announcing  to 
you  thus  formally  what  you  have  already  learned  indirectly. 
The  pulpit  from  which  our  venerable  pastor  has  fed  us  with 
sound  doctrine  for  half  a  century  is  not  to  be  invaded  by  a 
fanatical,  sectarian,  double-faced,  Jesuitical  interloper!  We 
are  not  to  have  our  young  people  demoralized  and  corrupted 
by  the  temptations  to  vice,  notoriously  connected  with  Sunday- 
evening  lectures!  We  are  not  to  have  a  preacher  obtruding 
himself  upon  us,  who  decries  good  works,  and  sneaks  into  our 
homes  perverting  the  faith  of  our  wives  and  daughters!  We 
are  not  to  be  poisoned  with  doctrines  which  damp  every  inno- 
cent enjoyment,  and  pick  a  poor  man's  pocket  of  the  sixpence 
with  which  he  might  buy  himself  a  cheerful  glass  after  a  hard 
day's  work,  under  pretence  of  paying  for  Bibles  to  send  to  the 
Chicktaws ! 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  waste  your  valuable  time  with  un- 
necessary words.  I  am  a  man  of  deeds"  ("Ay,  damn  you, 
that  you  are,  and  you  charge  well  for  'em  too,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  crowd,  probably  that  of  a  gentleman  who  was  imme- 
diately afterward  observed  with  his  hat  crushed  over  his  head) . 
"  I  shall  always  be  at  the  service  of  my  fellow-townsmen,  and 
whoever  dares  to  hector  over  you,  or  interfere  with  your  inno- 
cent pleasures,  shall  have  an  account  to  settle  with  Robert 
Dempster. 

"Now,  my  boys!  you  can't  do  better  than  disperse  and 
carry  the  good  news  to  all  your  fellow-townsmen,  whose  hearts 
are  as  sound  as  your  own.  Let  some  of  you  go  one  way  and 
some  another,  that  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Milby 


244  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

may  know  what  you  know  yourselves.  But  before  we  part, 
let  us  have  three  -cheers  for  True  Religion,  and  down  with 
Cant!" 

When  the  last  cheer  was  dying,  Mr.  Dempster  closed  the 
window,  and  the  judiciously  instructed  placards  and  carica- 
tures moved  off  in  divers  directions,  followed  by  larger  or 
smaller  divisions  of  the  crowd.  The  greatest  attraction  ap- 
parently lay  in  the  direction  of  Dog  Lane,  the  outlet  toward 
Faddif ord  Common,  whither  the  caricatures  were  moving ;  and 
you  foresee,  of  course,  that  those  works  of  symbolical  art  were 
consumed  with  a  liberal  expenditure  of  dry  gorse-bushes  and 
vague  shouting. 

After  these  great  public  exertions,  it  was  natural  that  Mr. 
Dempster  and  his  colleagues  should  feel  more  in  need  than 
usual  of  a  little  social  relaxation ;  aud  a  party  of  their  friends 
was  ahead}-  beginning  to  assemble  in  the  large  parlor  of  the 
Red  Lion,  convened  partly  by  their  own  curiosity,  and  partly 
by  the  invaluable  Mat  Paine.  The  most  capacious  punch- 
bowl was  put  in  requisition;  and  that  born  gentleman,  Mr. 
Lowme,  seated  opposite  Mr.  Dempster  as  "Vice,"  undertook 
to  brew  the  punch,  defying  the  criticisms  of  the  envious  men 
out  of  office,  who,  with  the  readiness  of  irresponsibility,  iguo- 
rantly  suggested  more  lemons.  The  social  festivities  were 
continued  till  long  past  midnight,  when  several  friends  of 
sound  religion  were  conveyed  home  with  some  difficulty,  one 
of  them  showing  a  dogged  determination  to  seat  himself  in 
the  gutter. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  done  as  much  justice  to  the  punch  as  any 
of  the  party;  and  his  friend  Boots,  though  aware  that  the 
lawyer  could  "carry  his  liquor  like  Old  Nick,"  with  whose 
social  demeanor  Boots  seemed  to  be  particularly  well  ac- 
quainted, nevertheless  thought  it  might  be  as  well  to -see  so 
good  a  customer  in  safety  to  his  own  door,  and  walked  quietly 
behind  his  elbow  out  of  the  inn -yard.  Dempster,  however, 
soon  became  aware  of  him,  stopped  short,  and,  turning  slowly 
round  upon  him,  recognized  the  well-known  drab  waistcoat 
sleeves,  conspicuous  enough  in  the  starlight. 

"  You  twopenny  scoundrel!  What  do  you  mean  by  dogging 
a  professional  man's  footsteps  in  this  way?  I'll  break  every 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  245 

bone  in  your  skin  if  you  attempt  to  track  me,  like  a  beastly 
cur  sniffing  at  one's  pocket.  Do  you  think  a  gentleman  will 
make  his  way  home  any  the  better  for  having  the  scent  of 
your  blacking-bottle  thrust  up  his  nostrils?  " 

Boots  slunk  back,  in  more  amusement  than  ill -humor,  think- 
ing the  lawyer's  "  rum  talk  "  was  doubtless  part  and  parcel  of 
his  professional  ability ;  and  Mr.  Dempster  pursued  his  slow 
way  alone. 

His  house  lay  in  Orchard  Street,  which  opened  on  the  pret- 
tiest outskirt  of  the  town — the  church,  the  parsonage,  and  a 
long  stretch  of  green  fields.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  house, 
with  an  overhanging  upper  story ;  outside,  it  had  a  face  of 
rough  stucco,  and  casement  windows  with  green  frames  and 
shutters ;  inside,  it  was  full  of  long  passages,  and  rooms  with 
low  ceilings.  There  was  a  large  heavy  knocker  on  the  green 
door,  and  though  Mr.  Dempster  carried  a  latch-key,  he  some- 
times chose  to  use  the  knocker.  He  chose  to  do  so  now.  The 
thunder  resounded  through  Orchard  Street,  and,  after  a  single 
minute,  there  was  a  second  clap  louder  than  the  first.  An- 
other minute,  and  still  the  door  was  not  opened ;  whereupon 
Mr.  Dempster,  muttering,  took  out  his  latch-key,  and,  with 
less  difficulty  than  might  have  been  expected,  thrust  it  into 
the  door.  When  he  opened  the  door  the  passage  was  dark. 

"  Janet !  "  in  the  loudest  rasping  tone,  was  the  next  sound 
that  rang  through  the  house. 

"  Janet !  "  again — before  a  slow  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs, 
and  a  distant  light  began  to  flicker  on  the  wall  of  the  passage. 

"  Curse  you !  you  creeping  idiot !     Come  faster,  can't  you?  " 

Yet  a  few  seconds,  and  the  figure  of  a  tall  woman,  holding 
aslant  a  heavy-plated  drawing-room  candlestick,  appeared  at 
the  turning  of  the  passage  that  led  to  the  broader  entrance. 

She  had  on  a  light  dress  which  sat  loosely  about  her  figure, 
but  did  not  disguise  its  liberal,  graceful  outline.  A  heavy 
mass  of  straight  jet-black  hair  had  escaped  from  its  fastening, 
and  hung  over  her  shoulders.  Her  grandly  cut  features,  pale 
with  the  natural  paleness  of  a  brunette,  had  premature  lines 
about  them,  telling  that  the  years  had  been  lengthened  by  sor- 
row, and  the  delicately  curved  nostril,  which  seemed  made  to 
quiver  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  power  and  beauty, 


246  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

must  have  quivered  to  the  heart-piercing  griefs  which  had 
given  that  worn  look  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  Her  wide- 
open  black  eyes  had  a  strangely  fixed,  sightless  gaze,  as  she 
paused  at  the  turning,  and  stood  silent  before  her  husband. 

"  I'll  teach  you  to  keep  me  waiting  in  the  dark,  you  pale 
staring  fool !  "  he  said,  advancing  with  his  slow  drunken  step. 
"  What,  you've  been  drinking  again,  have  you?  I'll  beat  you 
into  your  senses. " 

He  laid  his  hand  with  a  firm  gripe  on  her  shoulder,  turned 
her  round,  and  pushed  her  slowly  before  him  along  the  pas- 
sage and  through  the  dining-room  door,  which  stood  open  on 
their  left  hand. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  Janet's  mother,  a  gray-haired,  dark- 
eyed  old  woman,  in  a  neatly  fluted  cap,  hanging  over  the 
mantelpiece.  Surely  the  aged  eyes  take  on  a  look  of  anguish 
as  they  see  Janet — not  trembling,  no !  it  would  be  better  if 
she  trembled — standing  stupidly  unmoved  in  her  great  beauty, 
while  the  heavy  arm  is  lifted  to  strike  her.  The  blow  falls — 
another — and  another.  Surely  the  mother  hears  that  cry — "  O 
Robert!  pity!  pity!" 

Poor  gray -haired  woman !  Was  it  for  this  you  suffered  a 
mother's  pangs  in  your  lone  widowhood  five  and  thirty  years 
ago?  Was  it  for  this  you  kept  the  little  worn  morocco  shoes 
Janet  had  first  run  in,  and  kissed  them  day  by  day  when  she 
was  away  from  you,  a  tall  girl  at  school?  Was  it  for  this  you 
looked  proudly  at  her  when  she  came  back  to  you  in  her  rich 
pale  beauty,  like  a  tall  white  arum  that  has  just  unfolded  its 
grand  pure  curves  to  the  sun? 

The  mother  lies  sleepless  and  praying  in  her  lonely  house, 
weeping  the  difficult  tears  of  age,  because  she  dreads  this  may 
be  a  cruel  night  for  her  child. 

She  too  has  a  picture  over  her  mantelpiece,  drawn  in  chalk 
by  Janet  long  years  ago.  She  looked  at  it  before  she  went  to 
bed.  It  is  a  head  bowed  beneath  a  cross,  and  wearing  a  crown 
of  thorns. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  247 


CHAPTER   V. 

IT  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  mid- 
summer sun  was  already  warm  on  the  roofs  and  weathercocks 
of  Milby.  The  church  bells  were  ringing,  and  many  families 
were  conscious  of  Sunday  sensations,  chiefly  referable  to  the 
fact  that  the  daughters  had  come  down  to  breakfast  in  their 
best  frocks,  and  with  their  hair  particularly  well  dressed. 
For  it  was  not  Sunday,  but  Wednesday;  and  though  the 
Bishop  was  going  to  hold  a  Confirmation,  and  to  decide 
whether  or  not  there  should  be  a  Sunday-evening  lecture  in 
Milby,  the  sunbeams  had  the  usual  working-day  look  to  the 
haymakers  already  long  out  in  the  fields,  and  to  laggard 
weavers  just  "setting  up"  their  week's  "piece."  The  notion 
of  its  being  Sunday  was  the  strongest  in  young  ladies  like  Miss 
Phipps,  who  was  going  to  accompany  her  youngest  sister  to 
the  confirmation,  and  to  wear  a  "  sweetly  pretty  "  transparent 
bonnet  with  marabout  feathers  on  the  interesting  occasion, 
thus  throwing  into  relief  the  suitable  simplicity  of  her  sister's 
attire,  who  was,  of  course,  to  appear  in  a  new  white  frock ;  or 
in  the  pupils  at  Miss  Townley's,  who  were  absolved  from  all 
lessons,  and  were  going  to  church  to  see  the  Bishop,  and  to 
hear  the  Honorable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Prendergast,  the  rector, 
read  prayers — a  high  intellectual  treat,  as  Miss  Townley 
assured  them.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  a  rector,  who  was 
honorable,  should  read  better  than  old  Mr.  Crewe,  who  was 
only  a  curate,  and  not  honorable;  and  when  little  Clara 
Robins  wondered  why  some  clergymen  were  rectors  and  others 
not,  Ellen  Marriott  assured  her  with  great  confidence  that  it 
was  only  the  clever  men  who  were  made  rectors.  Ellen  Mar- 
riott was  going  to  be  confirmed.  She  was  a  short,  fair,  plump 
girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  sandy  hair,  which  was  this  morning 
arranged  in  taller  cannon  curls  than  usual,  for  the  reception  of 
the  Episcopal  benediction,  and  some  of  the  young  ladies  thought 
her  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  school ;  but  others  gave  the  prefer- 
ence to  her  rival,  Maria  Gardner,  who  was  much  taller,  and 
had  a  lovely  "  crop "  of  dark-brown  ringlets,  and  who,  being 


248  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

also  about  to  take  upon  herself  the  vows  made  in  her  name  at 
her  baptism,  had  oiled  and  twisted  her  ringlets  with  especial 
care.  As  she  seated  herself  at  the  breakfast-table  before  Miss 
Townley's  entrance  to  dispense  the  weak  coffee,  her  crop  ex- 
cited so  strong  a  sensation  that  Ellen  Marriott  was  at  length 
impelled  to  look  at  it,  and  to  say  with  suppressed  but  bitter 
sarcasm,  "  Is  that  Miss  Gardner's  head?  "  "  Yes,"  said  Maria, 
amiable  and  stuttering,  and  no  match  for  Ellen  in  retort; 
"  th— th— this  is  my  head. "  "  Then  I  don't  admire  it  at  all !  " 
was  the  crushing  rejoinder  of  Ellen,  followed  by  a  murmur  of 
approval  among  her  friends.  Young  ladies,  I  suppose,  ex- 
haust their  sac  of  venom  in  this  way  at  school.  That  is  the 
reason  why  they  have  such  a  harmless  tooth  for  each  other  in 
after  life. 

The  only  other  candidate  for  confirmation  at  Miss  Townley's 
was  Mary  Dunn,  a  draper's  daughter  in  Milby  and  a  distant 
relation  of  the  Miss  Linnets.  Her  pale  lanky  hair  could  never 
be  coaxed  into  permanent  curl,  and  this  morning  the  heat  had 
brought  it  down  to  its  natural  condition  of  lankiness  earlier 
than  usual.  But  that  was  not  what  made  her  sit  melancholy 
and  apart  at  the  lower  end  of  the  form.  Her  parents  were 
admirers  of  Mr.  Tryan,  and  had  been  persuaded,  by  the  Miss 
Linnets'  influence,  to  insist  that  their  daughter  should  be 
prepared  for  confirmation  by  him,  over  and  above  the  prepara- 
tion given  to  Miss  Townley's  pupils  by  Mr.  Crewe.  Poor 
Mary  Dunn !  I  am  afraid  she  thought  it  too  heavy  a  price  to 
pay  for  these  spiritual  advantages,  to  be  excluded  from  every 
game  at  ball,  to  be  obliged  to  walk  with  none  but  little  girls 
— in  fact,  to  be  the  object  of  an  aversion  that  nothing  short 
of  an  incessant  supply  of  plum-cakes  would  have  neutralized. 
And  Mrs.  Dunn  was  of  opinion  that  plum-cake  was  unwhole- 
some. The  anti-Tryanite  spirit,  you  perceive,  was  very  strong 
at  Miss  Townley's,  imported  probably  by  day  scholars,  as  well 
as  encouraged  by  the  fact  that  that  clever  woman  was  herself 
strongly  opposed  to  innovation,  and  remarked  every  Sunday 
that  Mr.  Crewe  had  preached  an  "  excellent  discourse. "  Poor 
Mary  Dunn  dreaded  the  moment  when  school-hours  would  be 
over,  for  then  she  was  sure  to  be  the  butt  of  those  very  explicit 
remarks  which,  in  young  ladies'  as  well  as  young  gentlemen's 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  249 

seminaries,  constitute  the  most  subtle  and  delicate  form  of 
the  innuendo.  "  I'd  never  be  a  Tryanite,  would  you?  "  "  Oh 
here  comes  the  lady  that  knows  so  much  more  about  religion 
than  we  do ! "  "  Some  people  think  themselves  so  very 
pious !  " 

It  is  really  surprising  that  young  ladies  should  not  be 
thought  competent  to  the  same  curriculum  as  young  gentle- 
men. I  observe  that  their  powers  of  sarcasm  are  quite  equal ; 
and  if  there  had  been  a  genteel  academy  for  young  gentlemen 
at  Milby,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  notwithstanding  Euclid 
and  the  classics,  the  party  spirit  there  would  not  have  exhib- 
ited itself  in  more  pungent  irony,  or  more  incisive  satire,  than 
was  heard  in  Miss  Townley's  seminary.  But  there  was  no 
such  academy,  the  existence  of  the  grammar-school  under  Mr. 
Crewe's  superintendence  probably  discouraging  speculations  of 
that  kind ;  and  the  genteel  youths  of  Milby  were  chiefly  come 
home  for  the  midsummer  holidays  from  distant  schools.  Sev- 
eral of  us  had  just  assumed  coat-tails,  and  the  assumption  of 
new  responsibility  apparently  following  as  a  matter  of  course, 
we  were  among  the  candidates  for  confirmation.  I  wish  I 
could  say  that  the  solemnity  of  our  feelings  was  on  a  level 
with  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion ;  but  unimaginative  boys 
find  it  difficult  to  recognize  apostolical  institutions  in  their 
developed  form,  and  I  fear  our  chief  emotion  concerning  the 
ceremony  was  a  sense  of  sheepishness,  and  our  chief  opinion, 
the  speculative  and  heretical  position,  that  it  ought  to  be  con- 
fined to  the  girls.  It  was  a  pity,  you  will  say ;  but  it  is  the 
way  with  us  men  in  other  crises,  that  come  a  long  while  after 
confirmation.  The  golden  moments  in  the  stream  of  life  rush 
past  us,  and  we  see  nothing  but  sand ;  the  angels  come  to  visit 
us,  and  we  only  know  them  when  they  are  gone. 

But,  as  I  say,  the  morning  was  sunny,  the  bells  were  ring- 
ing, the  ladies  of  Milby  were  dressed  in  their  Sunday  gar- 
ments. 

And  who  is  this  bright-looking  woman  walking  with  hasty 
step  along  Orchard  Street  so  early,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  her 
hand?  Can  it  be  Janet  Dempster,  on  whom  we  looked  with 
such  deep  pity,  one  sad  midnight,  hardly  a  fortnight  ago? 
Yes;  no  other  woman  in  Milby  has  those  searching  black 


250  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

eyes,  that  tall  graceful  unconstrained  figure,  set  off  by  her 
simple  rnuslin  dress  and  black  lace  shawl,  that  massy  black 
hair  now  so  neatly  braided  in  glossy  contrast  with  the  white 
satin  ribbons  of  her  modest  cap  and  bonnet.  No  other  woman 
has  that  sweet  speaking  smile,  with  which  she  nods  to  Jona- 
than Lamb,  the  old  parish  clerk.  And,  ah ! — now  she  comes 
nearer — there  are  those  sad  lines  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  on 
which  that  sweet  smile  plays  like  sunbeams  on  the  storm- 
beaten  beauty  of  the  full  and  ripened  corn. 

She  is  turning  out  of  Orchard  Street,  and  making  her  way 
as  fast  as  she  can  to  her  mother's  house,  a  pleasant  cottage 
facing  a  roadside  meadow,  from  which  the  hay  is  being  car- 
ried. Mrs.  Eaynor  has  had  her  breakfast,  and  is  seated  in 
her  arm-chair  reading,  when  Janet  opens  the  door,  saying,  in 
her  most  playful  voice — 

"  Please,  mother,  I'm  come  to  show  myself  to  you  before  I 
go  to  the  Parsonage.  Have  I  put  on  my  pretty  cap  and  bon- 
net to  satisfy  you?  " 

Mrs.  Eaynor  looked  over  her  spectacles,  and  met  her  daugh- 
ter's glance  with  eyes  as  dark  and  loving  as  her  own.  She 
was  a  much  smaller  woman  than  Janet,  both  in  figure  and 
feature,  the  chief  resemblance  lying  in  the  eyes  and  the  clear 
brunette  complexion.  The  mother's  hair  had  long  been  gray, 
and  was  gathered  under  the  neatest  of  caps,  made  by  her  own 
clever  fingers,  as  all  Janet's  caps  and  bonnets  were  too.  They 
were  well-practised  fingers,  for  Mrs.  Eaynor  had  supported 
herself  in  her  widowhood  by  keeping  a  millinery  establish- 
ment, and  in  this  way  had  earned  money  enough  to  give  her 
daughter  what  was  then  thought  a  first-rate  education,  as  well 
as  to  save  a  sum  which,  eked  out  by  her  son-in-law,  sufficed  to 
support  her  in  her  solitary  old  age.  Always  the  same  clean, 
neat  old  lady,  dressed  in  black  silk,  was  Mrs.  Eayuor :  a  pa- 
tient, brave  woman,  who  bowed  with  resignation  under  the 
burden  of  remembered  sorrow,  and  bore  with  meek  fortitude 
the  new  load  that  the  new  days  brought  with  them. 

"Your  bonnet  wants  pulling  a  trifle  forwarder,  my  child," 
she  said,  smiling,  and  taking  off  her  spectacles,  while  Janet 
at  once  knelt  down  before  her,  and  waited  to  be  "  set  to  rights, " 
as  she  would  have  done  when  she  was  a  child.  "  You're  going 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  -~>1 

straight  to  Mrs.  Crewe's,  I  suppose?  Are  those  flowers  to 
garnish  the  dishes?" 

"  No,  indeed,  mother.  This  is  a  nosegay  for  the  middle  of 
the  table.  I've  sent  up  the  dinner-service  and  the  ham  we 
had  cooked  at  our  house  yesterday,  and  Betty  is  coming  di- 
rectly with  the  garnish  and  the  plate.  We  shall  get  our  good 
Mrs.  Crewe  through  her  troubles  famously.  Dear  tiny  wom- 
an !  You  should  have  seen  her  lift  up  her  hands  yesterday, 
and  pray  heaven  to  take  her  before  ever  she  should  have 
another  collation  to  get  ready  for  the  Bishop.  She  said,  'It's 
bad  enough  to  have  the  Archdeacon,  though  he  doesn't  want 
half  so  many  jelly-glasses.  I  wouldn't  mind,  Janet,  if  it  was 
to  feed  all  the  hungry  cripples  in  Milby ;  but  so  much  trouble 
and  expense  for  people  who  eat  too  much  every  day  of  their 
lives!'  We  had  such  a  cleaning  and  furbishing  up  of  the 
sitting-room  yesterday !  Nothing  will  ever  do  away  with  the 
smell  of  Mr.  Crewe's  pipes,  you  know ;  but  we  have  thrown  it 
into  the  background,  with  yellow  soap  and  dry  lavender.  And 
now  I  must  run  away.  You  will  come  to  church,  mother?  " 

'•  Yes,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't  lose  such  a  pretty  sight.  It 
does  my  old  eyes  good  to  see  so  many  fresh  young  faces.  Is 
your  husband  going?  " 

"  Yes,  Robert  will  be  there.  I've  made  him  as  neat  as  a 
new  pin  this  morning,  and  he  says  the  Bishop  will  think  him 
too  buckish  by  half.  I  took  him  into  Mammy  Dempster's 
room  to  show  himself.  We  hear  Tryan  is  making  sure  of  the 
Bishop's  support;  but  we  shall  see.  I  would  give  my  crooked 
guinea,  and  all  the  luck  it  will  ever  bring  me,  to  have  him 
beaten,  for  I  can't  endure  the  sight  of  the  man  coming  to 
harass  dear  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crewe  in  their  last  days. 
Preaching  the  Gospel  indeed !  That  is  the  best  Gospel  that 
makes  everybody  happy  and  comfortable,  isn't  it,  mother?  " 

"Ah,  child,  I'm  afraid  there's  no  Gospel  will  do  that  here 
below. " 

"  Well,  I  can  do  something  to  comfort  Mrs.  Crewe,  at  least ; 
so  give  me  a  kiss,  and  good-by  till  church-time. " 

The  mother  leaned  back  in  her  chair  when  Janet  was  gone, 
and  sank  into  a  painful  revery.  When  our  life  is  a  continu- 
ous trial,  the  moments  of  respite  seem  only  to  substitute  the 


252  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

heaviness  of  dread  for  the  heaviness  of  actual  suffering :  the 
curtain  of  cloud  seems  parted  an  instant  only  that  we  may 
measure  all  its  horror  as  it  hangs  low,  black,  and  imminent, 
in  contrast  with  the  transient  brightness ;  the  water-drops  that 
visit  the  parched  lips  in  the  desert  bear  with  them  only  the 
keen  imagination  of  thirst.  Janet  looked  glad  and  tender 
now — but  what  scene  of  misery  was  coming  next?  She  was 
too  like  the  cistus  flowers  in  the  little  garden  before  the  win- 
dow, that,  with  the  shades  of  evening,  might  lie  with  the  deli- 
cate white  and  glossy  dark  of  their  petals  trampled  in  the 
roadside  dust.  When  the  sun  had  sunk,  and  the  twilight 
was  deepening,  Janet  might  be  seen  sitting  there,  heated, 
maddened,  sobbing  out  her  griefs  with  selfish  passion,  and 
wildly  wishing  herself  dead. 

Mrs.  Raynor  had  been  reading  about  the  lost  sheep,  and  the 
joy  there  is  in  heaven  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth.  S; 
the  eternal  love  she  believed  in  through  all  the  sadness  of  her 
lot  would  not  leave  her  child  to  wander  farther  and  farther 
into  the  wilderness  till  there  was  no  turning — the  child  so 
lovely,  so  pitiful  to  others,  so  good — till  she  was  goaded  into 
sin  by  woman's  bitterest  sorrows !  Mrs.  Kaynor  had  her  faith 
and  her  spiritual  comforts,  though  she  was  not  in  the  least 
evangelical,  and  knew  nothing  of  doctrinal  zeal.  I  fear  most 
of  Mr.  Tryan's  hearers  would  have  considered  her  destitute  of 
saving  knowledge,  and  I  am  quite  sure  she  had  no  well-defined 
views  on  justification.  Nevertheless,  she  read  her  Bible  a 
great  deal,  and  thought  she  found  divine  lessons  there — how 
to  bear  the  cross  meekly,  and  be  merciful.  Let  us  hope  that 
there  is  a  saving  ignorance,  and  that  Mrs.  Kaynor  was  justi- 
fied without  knowing  exactly  how. 

She  tried  to  have  hope  and  trust,  though  it  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  the  future  would  be  anything  else  than  the  harvest 
of  the  seed  that  was  being  sown  before  her  eyes.  But  always 
there  is  seed  being  sown  silently  and  unseen,  and  everywhere 
there  come  sweet  flowers  without  our  foresight  or  labor.  We 
reap  what  we  sow,  but  Nature  has  love  over  and  above  that 
justice,  and  gives  us  shadow  and  blossom  and  fruit  that  spring 
from  no  planting  of  ours. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  253 


CHAPTER   VI. 

MOST  people  must  have  agreed  with  Mrs.  Raynor  that  the 
Confirmation  that  day  was  a  pretty  sight,  at  least  when  those 
slight  girlish  forms  and  fair  young  faces  moved  in  a  white 
rivulet  along  the  aisles,  and  flowed  into  kneeling  semicircles 
under  the  light  of  the  great  chancel  window,  softened  by 
patches  of  dark  old  painted  glass ;  and  one  would  think  that 
to  look  on  while  a  pair  of  venerable  hands  pressed  s,uch  young 
heads,  and  a  venerable  face  looked  upward  for  a  blessing  on 
them,  would  be  very  likely  to  make  the  heart  swell  gently, 
and  to  moisten  the  eyes.  Yet  I  remember  the  eyes  seemed 
very  dry  in  Milby  Church  that  day,  notwithstanding  that  the 
Bishop  was  an  old  man,  and  probably  venerable  (for  though 
he  was  not  an  eminent  Grecian,  he  was  the  brother  of  a  Whig 
lord) ;  and  I  think  the  eyes  must  have  remained  dry,  because 
he  had  small  delicate  womanish  hands  adorned  with  ruffles, 
and,  instead  of  laying  them  on  the  girls'  heads,  just  let  them 
hover  over  each  in  quick  succession,  as  if  it  were  not  etiquette 
to  touch  them,  and  as  if  the  laying  on  of  hands  were  like  the 
theatrical  embrace — part  of  the  play,  and  not  to  be  really  be- 
lieved in.  To  be  sure,  there  were  a  great  many  heads,  and 
the  Bishop's  time  was  limited.  Moreover,  a  wig  can,  under 
no  circumstances,  be  affecting,  except  in  rare  cases  of  illusion ; 
and  copious  lawn-sleeves  cannot  be  expected  to  go  directly  to 
any  heart  except  a  washerwoman's. 

I  know,  Ned  Phipps,  who  knelt  against  me,  and  I  am  sure 
made  me  behave  much  worse  than  I  should  have  done  without 
him,  whispered  that  he  thought  the  Bishop  was  a  "  guy, "  and 
I  certainly  remember  thinking  that  Mr.  Prendergast  looked 
much  more  dignified  with  his  plain  white  surplice  and  black 
hair.  He  was  a  tall  commanding  man,  and  read  the  Liturgy 
in  a  strikingly  sonorous  and  uniform  voice,  which  I  tried  to 
imitate  the  next  Sunday  at  home,  until  my  little  sister  began 
to  cry,  and  said  I  was  "  yoaring  at  her. " 

Mr.  Tryan  sat  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit  with  several  other 
clergymen.  He  looked  pale,  and  rubbed  his  hand  over  his 


254  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

face  and  pushed  back  his  hair  oftener  than  usual.  Standing 
in  the  aisle  close  to  him,  and  repeating  the  responses  with 
edifying  loudness,  was  Mr.  Budd,  churchwarden  and  delegate, 
.with  a  white  staff  in  his  hand  and  a  backward  bend  of  his 
small  head  and  person,  such  as,  I  suppose,  he  considered  suit- 
able to  a  friend  of  sound  religion.  Conspicuous  in  the  gallery, 
too,  was  the  tall  figure  of  Mr.  Dempster,  whose  professional 
avocations  rarely  allowed  him  to  occupy  his  place  at  church. 

"There's  Dempster,"  said  Mrs.  Linnet  to  her  daughter 
Mary,  "looking  more  respectable  than  usual,  I  declare.  He's 
got  a  fine  speech  by  heart  to  make  to  the  Bishop,  I'll  answer 
for  it.  But  he'll  be  pretty  well  sprinkled  with  snuff  before 
service  is  over,  and  the  Bishop  won't  be  able  to  listen  to  him 
for  sneezing,  that's  one  comfort." 

At  length  the  last  stage  in  the  long  ceremony  was  over,  the 
large  assembly  streamed  warm  and  weary  into  the  open  after- 
noon sunshine,  and  the  Bishop  retired  to  the  Parsonage,  where, 
after  honoring  Mrs.  Crewe's  collation,  he  was  to  give  audience 
to  the  delegates  and  Mr.  Tryan  on  the  great  question  of  the 
evening  lecture. 

Between  five  and  six  o'clock  the  Parsonage  was  once  more 
as  quiet  as  usual  under  the  shadow  of  its  tall  elms,  and  the 
only  traces  of  the  Bishop's  recent  presence  there  were  the 
wheel -marks  on  the  gravel,  and  the  long  table  with  its  gar- 
nished dishes  awry,  its  damask  sprinkled  with  crumbs,  and 
its  decanters  without  their  stoppers.  Mr.  Crewe  was  already 
calmly  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  opposite  sitting-room,  and 
Janet  was  agreeing  with  Mrs.  Crewe  that  some  of  the  blanc- 
mange would  be  a  nice  thing  to  take  to  Sally  Martin,  while 
the  little  old  lady  herself  had  a  spoon  in  her  hand  ready  to 
gather  the  crumbs  into  a  plate,  that  she  might  scatter  them  on 
the  gravel  for  the  little  birds. 

Before  that  time,  the  Bishop's  carriage  had  been  seen  driv- 
ing through  the  High  Street  on  its  way  to  Lord  Trufford's, 
where  he  was  to  dine.  The  question  of  the  lecture  was 
decided,  then? 

The  nature  of  the  decision  may  be  gathered  from  the  follow- 
ing conversation  which  took  place  in  the  bar  of  the  Bed  Lion 
that  evening. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  255 

"  So  you're  done,  eh,  Dempster?  "  was  Mr.  Pilgrim's  obser- 
vation, uttered  with  some  gusto.  He  was  not  glad  Mr.  Tryan 
had  gained  his  point,  but  he  was  not  sorry  Dempster  was  dis- 
appointed. 

';  Done,  sir?  Not  at  all.  It  is  what  I  anticipated.  I  knew 
we  had  nothing  else  to  expect  in  these  days,  when  the  Church 
is  infested  by  a  set  of  men  who  are  only  fit  to  give  out  hymns 
from  an  empty  cask,  to  tunes  set  by  a  journeyman  cobbler. 
But  I  was  not  the  less  to  exert  myself  in  the  cause  of  sound 
Cliurchmauship  for  the  good  of  the  town.  Any  coward  can 
fight  a  battle  when  he's  sure  of  winning ;  but  give  me  the  man 
who  has  pluck  to  fight  when  he's  sure  of  losing.  That's  my 
way,  sir ;  and  there  are  many  victories  worse  than  a  defeat,  as 
Mr.  Tryan  shall  learn  to  his  cost." 

"  He  must  be  a  poor  shuperannyated  sort  of  a  bishop, 
that's  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  "to  go  along  with 
a  sneaking  Methodist  like  Tryan.  And,  for  my  part,  I 
think  we  should  be  as  well  wi'out  bishops,  if  they're 
no  wiser  than  that.  Where's  the  use  o'  havin'  thousands 
a  year  an'  livin'  in  a  pallis,  if  they  don't  stick  to  the 
Church?  " 

"No.  There  you're  going  out  of  your  depth,  Tomlinson," 
said  Mr.  Dempster.  "  No  one  shall  hear  me  say  a  word  against 
Episcopacy — it  is  a  safeguard  of  the  Church;  we  must  have 
ranks  and  dignities  there  as  well  as  everywhere  else.  No, 
sir!  Episcopacy  is  a  good  thing;  but  it  may  happen  that  a 
bishop  is  not  a  good  thing.  Just  as  brandy  is  a  good  thing, 
though  this  particular  brandy  is  British,  and  tastes  like  sugared 
rain-water  caught  down  the  chimney.  Here,  Ratcliffe,  let  me 
have  something  to  drink,  a  little  less  like  a  decoction  of  sugar 
and  soot." 

"  /  said  nothing  again'  Episcopacy, "  returned  Mr.  Tomlin- 
son. "  I  only  said  I  thought  we  should  do  as  well  wi'out 
bishops;  an'  I'll  say  it  again  for  the  matter  o'  that.  Bishops 
never  brought  any  grist  to  my  mill." 

"Do  you  know  when  the  lectures  are  to  begin?"  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim. 

"They  are  to  begin  on  Sunday  next,"  said  Mr.  Dempster, 
in  a  significant  tone ;  "  but  I  think  it  will  not  take  a  long- 


256  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sighted  prophet  to  foresee  the  end  of  them.  It  strikes  me  Mr. 
Try  an  will  be  looking  out  for  another  curacy  shortly." 

"  He'll  not  get  many  Milby  people  to  go  and  hear  his  lec- 
tures after  a  while,  I'll  bet  a  guinea,"  observed  Mr.  Budd. 
"  I  know  I'  11  not  keep  a  single  workman  on  my  ground  who 
either  goes  to  the  lecture  himself  or  lets  anybody  belonging  to 
him  go." 

"Nor  me  nayther,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson.  "No  Tryanite 
shall  touch  a  sack  or  drive  a  wagon  o'  mine,  that  you  may  de- 
pend on.  An'  I  know  more  besides  me  as  are  o'  the  same 
mind." 

"  Tryan  has  a  good  many  friends  in  the  town,  though,  and 
friends  that  are  likely  to  stand  by  him  too, "  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 
"  I  should  say  it  would  be  as  well  to  let  him  and  his  lectures 
alone.  If  he  goes  on  preaching  as  he  does,  with  such  a  con- 
stitution as  his,  he'll  get  a  relaxed  throat  by  and  by,  and  you'll 
be  rid  of  him  without  any  trouble. " 

"We'll  not  allow  him  to  do  himself  that  injury,"  said  Mr. 
Dempster.  "  Since  his  health  is  not  good,  we'll  persuade  him 
to  try  change  of  air.  Depend  upon  it,  he'll  find  the  climate 
of  Milby  too  hot  for  him. " 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MR.  DEMPSTER  did  not  stay  long  at  the  Red  Lion  that  even- 
ing. He  was  summoned  home  to  meet  Mr.  Armstrong,  a 
wealthy  client,  and  as  he  was  kept  in  consultation  till  a  late 
hour,  it  happened  that  this  was  one  of  the  nights  on  which 
Mr.  Dempster  went  to  bed  tolerably  sober.  Thus  the  day, 
which  had  been  one  of  Janet's  happiest,  because  it  had  been 
spent  by  her  in  helping  her  dear  old  friend  Mrs.  Crewe,  ended 
for  her  with  unusual  quietude ;  and  as  a  bright  sunset  prom- 
ises a  fair  morning,  so  a  calm  lying  down  is  a  good  augury  for 
a  calm  waking.  Mr.  Dempster,  on  the  Thursday  morning, 
was  in  one  of  his  best  humors,  and  though  perhaps  some  of 
the  good-humor  might  result  from  the  prospect  of  a  lucrative 
and  exciting  bit  of  business  in  Mr.  Armstrong's  probable  law- 
suit, the  greater  part  of  it  was  doubtless  due  to  those  stirrings 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  25 1 

of  the  more  kindly,  healthy  sap  of  human  feeling,  by  which 
goodness  tries  to  get  the  upper  hand  in  us  whenever  it  seems 
to  have  the  slightest  chance — on  Sunday  mornings,  perhaps, 
when  we  are  set  free  from  the  grinding  hurry  of  the  week, 
and  take  the  little  three-year-old  on  our  knee  at  breakfast  to 
share  our  egg  and  muffin ;  in  moments  of  trouble,  when  death 
visits  our  roof  or  illness  makes  us  dependent  on  the  tending 
hand  of  a  slighted  wife;  in  quiet  talks  with  an  aged  mother, 
of  the  days  when  we  stood  at  her  knee  with  our  first  picture- 
book,  or  wrote  her  loving  letters  from  school.  In  the  man 
whose  childhood  has  known  caresses  there  is  always  a  fibre  of 
memory  that  can  be  touched  to  gentle  issues,  and  Mr.  Demp- 
ster, whom  you  have  hitherto  seen  only  as  the  orator  of  the 
Red  Lion,  and  the  drunken  tyrant  of  a  dreary  midnight  home, 
was  the  first-born  darling  son  of  a  fair  little  mother.  That 
mother  was  living  still,  and  her  own  large  black  easy-chair, 
where  she  sat  knitting  through  the  livelong  day,  was  now  set 
ready  for  her  at  the  breakfast-table,  by  her  son' s  side,  a  sleek 
tortoise-shell  cat  acting  as  provisional  incumbent. 

"  Good-morning,  Mamsey !  why,  you're  looking  as  fresh  as 
a  daisy  this  morning.  You're  getting  young  again, "  said  Mr. 
Dempster,  looking  up  from  his  newspaper  when  the  little  old 
lady  entered.  A  very  little  old  lady  she  was,  with  a  pale, 
scarcely  wrinkled  face,  hair  of  that  peculiar  white  which  tells 
that  the  locks  have  once  been  blond,  a  natty  pure  white  cap 
on  her  head,  and  a  white  shawl  pinned  over  her  shoulders. 
You  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  had  been  a  mignonne  blonde, 
strangely  unlike  her  tall,  ugly,  dingy-complexioned  son;  un- 
like her  daughter-in-law,  too,  whose  large-featured  brunette 
beauty  seemed  always  thrown  into  higher  relief  by  the  white 
presence  of  little  Mamsey.  The  unlikeness  between  Janet  and 
her  mother-in-law  went  deeper  than  outline  and  complexion, 
and  indeed  there  was  little  sympathy  between  them,  for  old 
Mrs.  Dempster  had  not  yet  learned  to  believe  that  her  son, 
Robert,  would  have  gone  wrong  if  he  had  married  the  right 
woman — a  meek  woman  like  herself,  who  would  have  borne 
him  children,  and  been  a  deft,  orderly  housekeeper.  In  spite 
of  Janet's  tenderness  and  attention  to  her,  she  had  had  little 
love  for  her  daughter-in-law  from  the  first,  and  had  witnessed 


258  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

the  sad  growth  of  home-misery  through  long  years,  always 
with  a  disposition  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  wife  rather  than  on 
the  husband,  and  to  reproach  Mrs.  Raynor  for  encouraging  her 
daughter's  faults  by  a  too  exclusive  sympathy.  But  old  Mrs. 
Dempster  had  that  rare  gift  of  silence  and  passivity  which 
often  supplies  the  absence  of  mental  strength ;  and,  whatever 
were  her  thoughts,  she  said  no  word  to  aggravate  the  domestic 
discord.  Patient  and  mute  she  sat  at  her  knitting  through 
many  a  scene  of  quarrel  and  anguish ;  resolutely  she  appeared 
unconscious  of  the  sounds  that  reached  her  ears,  and  the  facts 
she  divined  after  she  had  retired  to  her  bed ;  mutely  she  wit- 
nessed poor  Janet's  faults,  only  registering  them  as  a  balance 
of  excuse  on  the  side  of  her  son.  The  hard,  astute,  domineer- 
ing attorney  was  still  that  little  old  woman' s  pet,  as  he  had 
been  when  she  watched  with  triumphant  pride  his  first  tum- 
bling effort  to  march  alone  across  the  nursery  floor.  "  See 
what  a  good  son  he  is  to  me !  "  she  often  thought.  "  Never 
gave  me  a  harsh  word.  And  so  he  might  have  been  a  good 
husband. " 

Oh,  it  is  piteous — that  sorrow  of  aged  women !  In  early 
youth,  perhaps,  they  said  to  themselves,  "  I  shall  be  happy 
when  I  have  a  husband  to  love  me  best  of  all " ;  then,  when  the 
husband  was  too  careless,  "  My  child  will  comfort  me  " ;  then, 
through  the  mother's  watching  and  toil,  "  My  child  will  repay 
me  all  when  it  grows  up."  And  at  last,  after  the  long  jour- 
ney of  years  has  been  wearily  travelled  through,  the  mother's 
heart  is  weighed  down  by  a  heavier  burthen,  and  no  hope 
remains  but  the  grave. 

But  this  morning  old  Mrs.  Dempster  sat  down  in  her  easy- 
chair  without  any  painful,  suppressed  remembrance  of  the 
preceding  night. 

"  I  declare  mammy  looks  younger  than  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  is 
only  sixty-five, "  said  Janet.  "  Mrs.  Crewe  will  come  to  see 
you  to-day,  mammy,  and  tell  you  all  about  her  troubles  with 
the  Bishop  and  the  collation.  She'll  bring  her  knitting,  and 
you'll  have  a  regular  gossip  together." 

"  The  gossip  will  be  all  on  one  side,  then,  for  Mrs.  Crewe 
gets  so  very  deaf,  I  can't  make  her  hear  a  word.  And  if  I 
motion  to  her,  she  always  understands  me  wrong." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  259 

"  Oh,  she  will  have  so  much  to  tell  you  to-day,  you  will  not 
want  to  speak  yourself.  You  who  have  patience  to  knit  those 
wonderful  counterpanes,  mammy,  must  not  be  impatient  with 
dear  Mrs.  Crewe.  Good  old  lady!  I  can't  bear  her  to  think 
she's  ever  tiresome  to  people,  and  you  know  she's  very  ready 
to  fancy  herself  in  the  way.  I  think  she  would  like  to  shrink 
up  to  the  size  of  a  mouse,  that  she  might  run  about  and  do 
people  good  without  their  noticing  her." 

"It  isn't  patience  I  want,  God  knows;  it's  lungs  to  speak 
loud  enough.  But  you'll  be  at  home  yourself,  I  suppose,  this 
morning;  and  you  can  talk  to  her  for  me." 

'*  Xo,  mammy ;  I  promised  poor  Mrs.  Lowme  to  go  and  sit 
with  her.  She's  confined  to  her  room,  and  both  the  Miss 
Lowines  are  out;  so  I'm  going  to  read  the  newspaper  to  her 
and  amuse  her." 

"Couldn't  you  go  another  morning?  As  Mr.  Armstrong 
and  that  other  gentleman  are  coming  to  dinner,  I  should  think 
it  would  be  better  to  stay  at  home.  Can  you  trust  Betty  to 
see  to  everything?  She's  new  to  the  place." 

"Oh,  1  couldn't  disappoint  Mrs.  Lowme;  1  promised  her. 
Betty  will  do  very  well,  no  fear." 

Old  Mrs.  Dempster  was  silent  after  this,  and  began  to  sip 
her  tea.  The  breakfast  went  on  without  further  conversation 
for  some  time,  Mr.  Dempster  being  absorbed  in  the  papers. 
At  length,  when  he  was  running  over  the  advertisements,  his 
eye  seemed  to  be  caught  by  something  that  suggested  a  new 
thought  to  him.  He  presently  thumped  the  table  with  an  air 
of  exultation,  and  said,  turning  to  Janet — 

"  I've  a  capital  idea,  Gypsy !  "  (that  was  his  name  for  his 
dark-eyed  wife  when  he  was  in  an  extraordinarily  good  humor), 
"  and  you  shall  help  me.  It's  just  what  you're  up  to." 

'•  What  is  it?  "  said  Janet,  her  face  beaming  at  the  sound  of 
the  pet  name,  now  heard  so  seldom.  "  Anything  to  do  with 
conveyancing?  " 

"  It's  a  bit  of  fun  worth  a  dozen  fees — a  plan  for  raising  a 
laugh  against  Tryan  and  his  gang  of  hypocrites." 

"  What  is  it?  Nothing  that  wants  a  needle  and  thread,  I 
hope,  else  I  must  go  and  tease  mother." 

"No,   nothing  sharper  than  your  wit — except  mine.     I'll 


260  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tell  you  what  it  is.  We'll  get  up  a  programme  of  the  Sunday 
evening  lecture,  like  a  play-bill,  you  know — '  Grand  Perform- 
ance of  the  celebrated  Mountebank,'  and  so  on.  We'll  bring 
in  the  Tryanites — old  Landor  and  the  rest — in  appropriate 
characters.  Proctor  shall  print  it,  and  we'll  circulate  it  in  the 
town.  It  will  be  a  capital  hit." 

"  Bravo !  "  said  Janet,  clapping  her  hands.  She  would  just 
then  have  pretended  to  like  almost  anything,  in  her  pleasure 
at  being  appealed  to  by  her  husband,  and  she  really  did  like 
to  laugh  at  the  Tryanites.  "We'll  set  about  it  directly,  and 
sketch  it  out  before  you  go  to  the  office.  I've  got  Tryan's 
sermons  upstairs,  but  I  don't  think  there's  anything  in  them 
we  can  use.  I've  only  just  looked  into  them;  they're  not  at 
all  what  I  expected — dull,  stupid  things — nothing  of  the  roar- 
ing fire-and-brimstone  sort  that  I  expected." 

"Koaring?  No;  Tryan's  as  soft  as  a  sucking  dove — one 
of  your  honey-mouthed  hypocrites.  Plenty  of  devil  and  malice 
in  him,  though,  I  could  see  that,  while  he  was  talking  to  the 
Bishop;  but  as  smooth  as  a  snake  outside.  He's  beginning  a 
single-handed  fight  with  me,  I  can  see — persuading  my  clients 
away  from  me.  We  shall  see  who  will  be  the  first  to  cry  pec- 
cavi.  Milby  will  do  better  without  Mr.  Tryan  than  without 
Eobert  Dempster,  I  fancy !  and  Milby  shall  never  be  flooded 
with  cant  as  long  as  I  can  raise  a  breakwater  against  it.  But 
now,  get  the  breakfast  things  cleared  away,  and  let  us  set 
about  the  play-bill.  Come,  Mamsey,  come  and  have  a  walk 
with  me  round  the  garden,  and  let  us  see  how  the  cucumbers 
are  getting  on.  I've  never  taken  you  round  the  garden  for  an 
age.  Come,  you  don't  want  a  bonnet.  It's  like  walking  in  a 
greenhouse  this  morning." 

"But  she  will  want  a  parasol,"  said  Janet.  "There's  one 
on  the  stand  against  the  garden-door,  Kobert." 

The  little  old  lady  took  her  son's  arm  with  placid  pleasure. 
She  could  barely  reach  it  so  as  to  rest  upon  it,  but  he  inclined 
a  little  toward  her,  and  accommodated  his  heavy  long-limbed 
steps  to  her  feeble  pace.  The  cat  chose  to  sun  herself  too, 
and  walked  close  beside  them,  with  tail  erect,  rubbing  her 
sleek  sides  against  their  legs, — too  well  fed  to  be  excited  by 
the  twittering  birds.  The  garden  was  of  the  grassy,  shady 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  261 

kind,  often  seen  attached  to  old  houses  in  provincial  towns ; 
the  apple-trees  had  had  time  to  spread  their  branches  very 
wide,  the  shrubs  and  hardy  perennial  plants  had  grown  into  a 
luxuriance  that  required  constant  trimming  to  prevent  them 
from  intruding  on  the  space  for  walking.  But  the  farther  end, 
which  united  with  green  fields,  was  open  and  sunny. 

It  was  rather  sad,  and  yet  pretty,  to  see  that  little  group 
passing  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sunshine,  and  out  of  the 
sunshine  into  the  shadow  again :  sad,  because  this  tenderness 
of  the  son  for  the  mother  was  hardly  more  than  a  nucleus  of 
healthy  life  in  an  organ  hardening  by  disease,  because  the 
man  who  was  linked  in  this  way  with  an  innocent  past,  had 
become  callous  in  worldliness,  fevered  by  sensuality,  enslaved 
by  chance  impulses ;  pretty,  because  it  showed  how  hard  it  is 
to  kill  the  deep-down  fibrous  roots  of  human  love  and  goodness 
—how  the  man  from  whom  we  make  it  our  pride  to  shrink, 
has  yet  a  close  brotherhood  with  us  through  some  of  our  most 
sacred  feelings. 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  house,  Janet  met  them,  and 
said,  "  Now,  Robert,  the  writing  things  are  ready.  I  shall  be 
clerk,  and  Mat  Paine  can  copy  it  out  after." 

Mammy  once  more  deposited  in  her  arm-chair,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hand,  and  the  cat  purring  at  her  elbow,  Janet 
seated  herself  at  the  table,  while  Mr.  Dempster  placed  himself 
near  her,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and  plentifully  suffusing  him- 
self with  the  inspiring  powder,  began  to  dictate. 

What  he  dictated,  we  shall  see  by  and  by. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  next  day,  Friday,  at  five  o'clock  by  the  sun-dial,  the 
large  bow-window  of  Mrs.  Jerome's  parlor  was  open ;  and  that 
lady  herself  was  seated  within  its  ample  semicircle,  having  a 
table  before  her  on  which  her  best  tea-tray,  her  best  china, 
and  her  best  urn-rug  had  already  been  standing  in  readiness 
for  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Jerome's  best  tea-service  was  of  deli- 
cate white  fluted  china,  with  gold  sprigs  upon  it — as  pretty  a 


262  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tea-service  as  you  need  wish  to  see,  and  quite  good  enough  for 
chimney  ornaments ;  indeed,  as  the  cups  were  without  handles, 
most  visitors  who  had  the  distinction  of  taking  tea  out  of  them, 
wished  that  such  charming  china  had  already  been  promoted 
to  that  honorary  position.  Mrs.  Jerome  was  like  her  china, 
handsome  and  old-fashioned.  She  was  a  buxom  lady  of  sixty, 
in  an  elaborate  lace  cap  fastened  by  a  frill  under  her  chin,  a 
dark,  well-curled  front  concealing  her  forehead,  a  snowy  neck- 
erchief exhibiting  its  ample  folds  as  far  as  her  waist,  and  a 
stiff  gray  silk  gown.  She  had  a  clean  damask  napkin  pinned 
before  her  to  guard  her  dress  during  the  process  of  tea-mak- 
ing; her  favorite  geraniums  in  the  bow-window  were  looking 
as  healthy  as  she  could  desire;  her  own  handsome  portrait, 
painted  when  she  was  twenty  years  younger,  was  smiling 
down  on  her  with  agreeable  flattery ;  and  altogether  she  seemed 
to  be  in  as  peaceful  and  pleasant  a  position  as  a  buxom,  well- 
drest  elderly  lady  need  desire.  But,  as  in  so  many  other 
cases,  appearances  were  deceptive.  Her  mind  was  greatly 
perturbed  and  her  temper  ruffled  by  the  fact  that  it  was  more 
than  a  quarter  past  five  even  by  the  losing  timepiece,  that  it 
was  half-past  by  her  large  gold  watch,  which  she  held  in  her 
hand  as  if  she  were  counting  the  pulse  of  the  afternoon,  and 
that,  by  the  kitchen  clock,  which  she  felt  sure  was  not  an 
hour  too  fast,  it  had  already  struck  six.  The  lapse  of  time 
was  rendered  the  more  unendurable  to  Mrs.  Jerome  by  her 
wonder  that  Mr.  Jerome  could  stay  out  in  the  garden  with 
Lizzie  in  that  thoughtless  way,  taking  it  so  easily  that  tea-time 
was  long  past,  and  that,  after  all  the  trouble  of  getting  down 
the  best  tea-things,  Mr.  Tryan  would  not  come. 

This  honor  had  been  shown  to  Mr.  Tryan,  not  at  all  because 
Mrs.  Jerome  had  any  high  appreciation  of  his  doctring  or  of 
his  exemplary  activity  as  a  pastor,  but  simply  because  he  was 
a  "  Church  clergyman, "  and  as  such  was  regarded  by  her  with 
the  same  sort  of  exceptional  respect  that  a  white  woman  who 
had  married  a  native  of  the  Society  Islands  might  be  supposed 
to  feel  toward  a  white-skinned  visitor  from  the  land  of  her 
youth.  For  Mrs.  Jerome  had  been  reared  a  Churchwoman, 
and  having  attained  the  age  of  thirty  before  she  was  married, 
had  felt  the  greatest  repugnance  in  the  first  instance  to  re- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  263 

nouncing  the  religious  forms  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up.  "  You  know, "  she  said  in  confidence  to  her  Church 
acquaintances,  "  I  wouldn't  give  no  ear  at  all  to  Mr.  Jerome 
at  fust;  but  after  all,  I  begun  to  think  as  there  was  a  many 
things  worse  nor  goin'  to  chapel,  an'  you'd  better  do  that  nor 
not  pay  your  way.  Mr.  Jerome  had  a  very  pleasant  manner 
with  him,  an'  there  was  niver  another  as  kept  a  gig,  an'  'ud 
make  a  settlement  on  me  like  him,  chapel  or  no  chapel.  It 
seemed  very  odd  to  me  for  a  long  while,  the  preachin'  without 
book,  an'  the  stannin'  up  to  one  long  prayer,  istid  o'  changin' 
your  postur.  But  la!  there's  nothin'  as  you  mayn't  get  used 
to  i'  time;  you  can  al'ys  sit  down,  you  know,  before  the 
prayer's  done.  The  ministers  say  pretty  nigh  the  same  things 
as  the  Church  parsons,  by  what  I  could  iver  make  out,  an' 
we're  out  o'  chapel  i'  the  mornin'  a  deal  sooner  nor  they're 
out  o'  church.  An'  as  for  pews,  ours  is  a  deal  comfortabler 
nor  any  i'  Milby  Church." 

Mrs.  Jerome,  you  perceive,  had  not  a  keen  susceptibility  to 
shades  of  doctrine,  and  it  is  probable  that,  after  listening  to 
Dissenting  eloquence  for  thirty  years,  she  might  safely  have 
re-entered  the  Establishment  without  performing  any  spiritual 
quarantine.  Her  mind,  apparently,  was  of  that  non-porous 
flinty  character  which  is  not  in  the  least  danger  from  surround- 
ing damp.  But  on  the  question  of  getting  start  of  the  sun  on 
the  day's  business,  and  clearing  her  conscience  of  the  neces- 
sary sum  of  meals  and  the  consequent  "  washing  up  "  as  soon 
as  possible,  so  that  the  family  might  be  well  in  bed  at  nine, 
Mrs.  Jerome  -//-as  susceptible ;  and  the  present  lingering  pace 
of  things,  united  with  Mr.  Jerome's  unaccountable  oblivious- 
ness,  was  not  to  be  borne  any  longer.  So  she  rang  the  bell 
for  Sally. 

"  Goodness  me,  Sally !  go  into  the  garden  an'  see  after  your 
master.  Tell  him  it's  goin'  on  for  six,  an'  Mr.  Tryan  'ull 
river  think  o'  comin'  now,  an'  it's  time  we  got  tea  over.  An' 
he's  lettin'  Lizzie  stain  her  frock,  I  expect,  among  them  straw- 
berry-beds. Make  her  come  in  this  minute." 

No  wonder  Mr.  Jerome  was  tempted  to  linger  in  the  gar- 
den, for  though  the  house  was  pretty  and  well  deserved  its 
name — "the  White  House,"  the  tall  damask  roses  that  clus- 


264  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tered  over  the  porch  being  thrown  into  relief  by  rough  stucco 
of  the  most  brilliant  white,  yet  the  garden  and  orchards  were 
Mr.  Jerome's  glory,  as  well  they  might  be;  and  there  was 
nothing  in  which  he  had  a  more  innocent  pride — peace  to  a 
good  man's  memory!  all  his  pride  was  innocent — than  in  con- 
ducting a  hitherto  uninitiated  visitor  over  his  grounds,  and 
making  him  in  some  degree  aware  of  the  incomparable  advan- 
tages possessed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  White  House  in  the 
matter  of  red-streaked  apples,  russets,  northern  greens  (excel- 
lent for  baking),  swan-egg  pears,  and  early  vegetables,  to  say 
nothing  of  flowering  "  srubs,"  pink  hawthorns,  lavender  bushes 
more  than  ever  Mrs.  Jerome  could  use,  and,  in  short,  a  super- 
abundance of  everything  that  a  person  retired  from  business 
could  desire  to  possess  himself  or  to  share  with  his  friends. 
The  garden  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  paradises  which 
hardly  exist  any  longer  except  as  memories  of  our  childhood : 
no  finical  separation  between  flower  and  kitchen  garden  there ; 
no  monotony  of  enjoyment  for  one  sense  to  the  exclusion  of 
another;  but  a  charming  paradisiacal  mingling  of  all  that  was 
pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  good  for  food.  The  rich  flower-bor- 
der running  along  every  walk,  with  its  endless  succession  of 
spring  flowers,  anemones,  auriculas,  wall-flowers,  sweet-wil- 
liams, campanulas,  snapdragons,  and  tiger-lilies,  had  its  taller 
beauties,  such  as  moss  and  Provence  roses,  varied  with  espa- 
lier apple-trees ;  the  crimson  of  a  carnation  was  carried  out  in 
the  lurking  crimson  of  the  neighboring  strawberry-beds ;  you 
gathered  a  moss-rose  one  moment  and  a  bunch  of  currants  the 
next ;  you  were  in  a  delicious  fluctuation  between  the  scent  of 
jasmine  and  the  juice  of  gooseberries.  Then  what  a  high  wall 
at  one  end,  flanked  by  a  summer-house  so  lofty,  that  after 
ascending  its  long  flight  of  steps  you  could  see  perfectly  well 
there  was  no  view  worth  looking  at ;  what  alcoves  and  garden- 
seats  in  all  directions ;  and  along  one  side,  what  a  hedge,  tall, 
and  firm,  and  unbroken,  like  a  green  wall! 

It  was  near  this  hedge  that  Mr.  Jerome  was  standing  when 
Sally  found  him.  He  had  set  down  the  basket  of  strawberries 
on  the  gravel,  and  had  lifted  up  little  Lizzie  in  his  arms  to 
look  at  a  bird's  nest.  Lizzie  peeped,  and  then  looked  at  her 
grandpa  with  round  blue  eyes,  and  then  peeped  again. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  265 

"D'ye  see  it,  Lizzie?"  he  whispered. 

"  Yes, "  she  whispered  in  return,  putting  her  lips  very  near 
grandpa's  face.  At  this  moment  Sally  appeared. 

"Eh,  eh,  Sally,  what's  the  matter?     Is  Mr.  Try  an  come?  " 

"No,  sir,  an'  Missis  says  she's  sure  he  won't  come  now,  an' 
she  wants  you  to  come  in  an'  hev  tea.  Dear  heart,  Miss  Liz- 
zie, you've  stained  your  pinafore,  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
it's  gone  through  to  your  frock.  There'll  be  fine  work! 
Come  alonk  wi'  me,  do." 

"  Nay,  nay,  nay,  we've  done  no  harm,  we've  done  no  harm, 
hev  we,  Lizzie?  The  wash-tub  'ull  make  all  right  again." 

Sally,  regarding  the  wash-tub  from  a  different  point  of  view, 
looked  sourly  serious,  and  hurried  away  with  Lizzie,  who 
trotted  submissively  along,  her  little  head  in  eclipse  under  a 
large  nankin  bonnet,  while  Mr.  Jerome  followed  leisurely  with 
his  full  broad  shoulders  in  rather  a  stooping  posture,  and  his 
large  good-natured  features  and  white  locks  shaded  by  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

"Mr.  Jerome,  I  wonder  at  you,"  said  Mrs.  Jerome,  in  a 
tone  of  indignant  remonstrance,  evidently  sustained  by  a  deep 
sense  of  injury,  as  her  husband  opened  the  parlor  door. 
"When  will  you  leave  off  invitin'  people  to  meals  an'  not 
lettin'  'em  know  the  time?  I'll  answer  for't,  you  niver  said 
a  word  to  Mr.  Tryan  as  we  should  take  tea  at  five  o'clock. 
It's  just  like  you!  " 

"Nay,  nay,  Susan,"  answered  the  husband,  in  a  soothing 
tone,  "  there's  nothin'  amiss.  I  told  Mr.  Tryau  as  we  took 
tea  at  five  punctial;  mayhap  summat's  a-detainin'  on  him. 
He's  a  deal  to  do,  an'  to  think  on,  remember." 

"Why,  it's  struck  six  i'  the  kitchen  a'ready.  It's  non- 
sense to  look  for  him  comin'  now.  So  you  may's  well  ring  for 
th'  urn.  Now  Sally's  got  th'  heater  in  the  fire,  we  may's 
well  hev  th'  urn  in,  though  he  doesn't  come.  I  niver  see'd 
the  like  o'  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  for  axin'  people  an'  givin'  me 
the  trouble  o'  gettin'  things  down  an'  hevin'  crumpets  made, 
an'  after  all  they  don't  come.  I  shall  hev  to  wash  every  one 
o'  these  tea-things  myself,  for  there's  no  trustin'  Sally — she'd 
break  a  f ortin  i'  crockery  i'  no  time !  " 

"But  why  will  you  give  yourself  sich  trouble,  Susan?     Our 


266  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

every-day  tea-things  would  ha'  done  as  well  for  Mr.  Tryan, 
an'  they're  a  deal  convenenter  to  hold." 

"Yes,  that's  just  your  way,  Mr.  Jerome,  you're  al'ys  a- 
findin'  faut  wi'  my  chany,  because  I  bought  it  myself  afore  I 
was  married.  But  let  me  tell  you,  I  knowed  how  to  choose 
chany  if  I  didn't  know  how  to  choose  a  husband.  An'  where's 
Lizzie?  You've  niver  left  her  i'  the  garden  by  herself,  with 
her  white  frock  on  an'  clean  stockin's?" 

"Be  easy,  my  dear  Susan,  be  easy;  Lizzie's  come  in  wi' 
Sally.  She's  hevin'  her  pinafore  took  off,  I'll  be  bound. 
Ah!  there's  Mr.  Tryan  a-comin'  through  the  gate." 

Mrs.  Jerome  began  hastily  to  adjust  her  damask  napkin 
and  the  expression  of  her  countenance  for  the  reception  of  the 
clergyman,  and  Mr.  Jerome  went  out  to  meet  his  guest,  whom 
he  greeted  outside  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Tryan,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tryan?  Welcome  to  the 
White  House !  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir — I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

If  you  had  heard  the  tone  of  mingled  good-will,  veneration, 
and  condolence  in  which  this  greeting  was  uttered,  even  with- 
out seeing  the  face  that  completely  harmonized  with  it,  you 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  inferring  the  ground-notes  of  Mr. 
Jerome's  character.  To  a  fine  ear  that  tone  said  as  plainly 
as  possible — "Whatever  recommends  itself  to  me,  Thomas 
Jerome,  as  piety  and  goodness,  shall  have  my  love  and  honor. 
Ah,  friends,  this  pleasant  world  is  a  sad  one,  too,  isn't  it? 
Let  us  help  one  another,  let  us  help  one  another."  And  it 
was  entirely  owing  to  this  basis  of  character,  not  at  all  from 
any  clear  and  precise  doctrinal  discrimination,  that  Mr.  Je- 
rome had  very  early  in  life  become  a  Dissenter.  In  his  boy- 
ish days  he  had  been  thrown  where  Dissent  seemed  to  have 
the  balance  of  piety,  purity,  and  good  works  on  its  side,  and 
to  become  a  Dissenter  seemed  to  him  identical  with  choosing 
God  instead  of  mammon.  That  race  of  Dissenters  is  extinct 
in  these  days,  when  opinion  has  got  far  ahead  of  feeling,  and 
every  chapel-going  youth  can  fill  our  ears  with  the  advantages 
of  the  Voluntary  system,  the  corruptions  of  a  State  Church, 
and  the  Scriptural  evidence  that  the  first  Christians  were  Con- 
gregationalists.  Mr.  Jerome  knew  nothing  of  this  theoretic 
basis  for  Dissent,  and  in  the  utmost  extent  of  his  polemical 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  207 

discussions  he  had  not  gone  further  than  to  question  whether 
a  Christian  man  was  bound  in  conscience  to  distinguish  Christ- 
mas and  Easter  by  any  peculiar  observance  beyond  the  eating 
of  mince-pies  and  cheese-cakes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all 
seasons  were  alike  good  for  thanking  God,  departing  from  evil 
und  doing  well,  whereas  it  might  be  desirable  to  restrict  the 
period  for  indulging  in  unwholesome  forms  of  pastry.  Mr. 
Jerome's  dissent  being  of  this  simple,  non-polemical  kind,  it 
is  easy  to  understand  that  the  report  he  heard  of  Mr.  Tryan  as 
a  good  man  and  a  powerful  preacher,  who  was  stirring  the 
hearts  of  the  people,  had  been  enough  to  attract  him  to  the 
Paddiford  Church,  and  that  having  felt  himself  more  edified 
there  than  he  had  of  late  been  under  Mr.  Stickney's  dis- 
courses at  Salem,  he  had  driven  thither  repeatedly  in  the  Sun- 
day afternoons,  and  had  sought  an  opportunity  of  making  Mr. 
Try  an' s  acquaintance.  The  evening  lecture  was  a  subject  of 
warm  interest  with  him,  and  the  opposition  Mr.  Tryan  met 
with  gave  that  interest  a  strong  tinge  of  partisanship;  for 
there  was  a  store  of  irascibility  in  Mr.  Jerome's  nature  which 
must  find  a  vent  somewhere,  and  in  so  kindly  and  upright  a 
man  could  only  find  it  in  indignation  against  those  whom  he 
held  to  be  enemies  of  truth  and  goodness.  Mr.  Tryan  had 
not  hitherto  been  to  the  White  House,  but  yesterday,  meeting 
Mr.  Jerome  in  the  street,  he  had  at  once  accepted  the  invita- 
tion to  tea,  saying  there  was  something  he  wished  to  talk 
about.  He  appeared  worn  and  fatigued  now,  and  after  shak- 
ing hands  with  Mrs.  Jerome,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
looked  out  on  the  pretty  garden  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"What  a  nice  place  you  have  here,  Mr.  Jerome!  I've  not 
seen  anything  so  quiet  and  pretty  since  I  came  to  Milby.  On 
Paddiford  Common,  where  I  live,  you  know,  the  bushes  are 
all  sprinkled  with  soot,  and  there's  never  any  quiet  except  in 
the  dead  of  night." 

"Dear  heart!  dear  heart!  That's  very  bad — and  for  yon, 
too,  as  hev  to  study.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you  to  bo 
somewhere  more  out  in  the  country  like?" 

"  Oh  no !  I  should  lose  so  much  time  in  going  to  and  fro ; 
and  besides,  I  like  to  be  among  the  people.  I've  no  face  to 
go  and  preach  resignation  to  those  poor  things  in  their  smoky 


268  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

air  and  comfortless  homes,  when  I  come  straight  from  every 
luxury  myself.  There  are  many  things  quite  lav*  ful  for  other 
men,  which  a  clergyman  must  forego  if  he  would  do  any  good 
in  a  manufacturing  population  like  this." 

Here  the  preparations  for  tea  were  crowned  by  the  simulta- 
neous appearance  of  Lizzie  and  the  crumpet.  It  is  a  pretty 
surprise,  when  one  visits  an  elderly  couple,  to  see  a  little  fig- 
ure enter  in  a  white  frock  with  a  blond  head  as  smooth  as 
satin,  round  blue  eyes,  and  a  cheek  like  an  apple-blossom.  A 
toddling  little  girl  is  a  centre  of  common  feeling  which  makes 
the  most  dissimilar  people  understand  each  other;  and  Mr. 
Tryan  looked  at  Lizzie  with  that  quiet  pleasure  which  is  always 
genuine. 

"  Here  we  are,  here  we  are !  "  said  proud  grandpapa.  "  You 
didn't  think  we'd  got  such  a  little  gell  as  this,  did  you,  Mr. 
Tryan?  Why,  it  seems  but  th'  other  day  since  her  mother 
was  just  such  another.  This  is  our  little  Lizzie,  this  is.  Come 
an'  shake  hands  wi'  Mr.  Tryan,  Lizzie;  come." 

Lizzie  advanced  without  hesitation,  and  put  out  one  hand, 
while  she  fingered  her  coral  necklace  with  the  other,  and 
looked  up  into  Mr.  Tryan' s  face  with  a  reconnoitring  gaze. 
He  stroked  the  satin  head,  and  said  in  his  gentlest  voice, 
"  How  do  you  do,  Lizzie?  will  you  give  me  a  kiss?  "  She  put 
up  her  little  bud  of  a  mouth,  and  then  retreating  a  little  and 
glancing  down  at  her  frock,  said — 

"  Dit  id  my  noo  fock.  I  put  it  on  'tod  you  wad  toming. 
Tally  taid  you  wouldn't  'ook  at  it." 

"Hush,  hush,  Lizzie!  little  gells  must  be  seen  and  not 
heard,"  said  Mrs.  Jerome;  while  grandpapa,  winking  signifi- 
cantly, and  looking  radiant  with  delight  at  Lizzie's  extraordi- 
nary promise  of  cleverness,  set  her  up  on  her  high  cane-chair 
by  the  side  of  grandma,  who  lost  no  time  in  shielding  the 
beauties  of  the  new  frock  with  a  napkin. 

"Well  now,  Mr.  Tryan,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  very  serious 
tone  when  tea  had  been  distributed,  "  let  me  hear  how  you're 
a-goin'  on  about  the  lectur.  When  I  was  i'  the  town  yister- 
day,  I  beared  as  there  was  pessecutin'  schemes  a-bein'  laid 
again'  you.  I  fear  me  those  raskills'll  mek  things  very  on- 
pleasant  to  you." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  269 

"I've  no  doubt  they  will  attempt  it;  indeed,  I  quite  expect 
there  will  be  a  regular  mob  got  up  on  Sunday  evening,  as 
there  was  when  the  delegates  returned,  on  purpose  to  annoy 
me  and  the  congregation  on  our  way  to  church." 

"Ah,  they're  capible  o'  anything,  such  men  as  Dempster 
an'  Budd;  an'  Tomlinson  backs  'em  wi'  money,  though  he 
can't  wi'  brains.  Howiver,  Dempster's  lost  one  client  by  his 
wicked  doin's,  an'  I'm  deceived  if  he  won't  lose  more  nor  one. 
I  little  thought,  Mr.  Tryan,  when  I  put  my  affairs  into  his 
hands  twenty  'ear  ago  this  Michaelmas,  as  he  was  to  turn  out 
a  pessecutor  o'  religion.  I  niver  lighted  on  a  cliverer,  prom- 
isiner  young  man  nor  he  was  then.  They  talked  of  his  bein' 
fond  of  a  extry  glass  now  an'  then,  but  niver  nothin'  like 
what  he's  come  to  since.  An'  it's  head-piece  you  must  look 
for  in  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Tryan,  it's  head-piece.  His  wife,  too, 
was  al'ys  an  uncommon  favorite  of  mine — poor  thing !  I  hear 
sad  stories  about  her  now.  But  she's  druv  to  it,  she's  druv 
to  it,  Mr.  Tryan.  A  tender-hearted  woman  to  the  poor,  she 
is,  as  iver  lived;  an'  as  pretty-spoken  a  woman  as  you  need 
wish  to  talk  to.  Yes!  I'd  al'ys  a  liken'  for  Dempster  an' 
his  wife,  spite  o'  iverything.  But  as  soon  as  iver  1  heared  o' 
that  dilegate  business,  I  says,  says  I,  that  man  shall  hev  no 
more  to  do  wi'  my  affairs.  It  may  put  me  t'  inconvenience, 
but  I'll  encourage  no  man  as  pessecutes  religion." 

'Tie  is  evidently  the  brain  and  hand  of  the  persecution," 
saifl  Mr.  Tryan.  "  There  may  be  a  strong  feeling  against  me 
in  a  large  number  of  the  inhabitants — it  must  be  so  from  the 
great  ignorance  of  spiritual  things  in  this  place.  But  I  fancy 
there  would  have  been  no  formal  opposition  to  the  lecture,  if 
Dempster  had  not  planned  it.  I  am  not  myself  the  least 
alarmed  at  anything  he  can  do ;  he  will  find  I  am  not  to  be 
cowed  or  driven  away  by  insult  or  personal  danger.  God  has 
sent  me  to  this  place,  and,  by  His  blessing,  I'll  not  shrink 
from  anything  I  may  have  to  encounter  in  doing  His  work 
among  the  people.  But  I  feel  it  right  to  call  on  all  those  who 
know  the  value  of  the  Gospel,  to  stand  by  me  publicly.  I 
think — and  Mr.  Landor  agrees  with  me — that  it  will  be  well 
for  my  friends  to  proceed  with  me  in  a  body  to  the  church  on 
Sunday  evening.  Dempster,  you  know,  has  pretended  that 


270  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

almost  all  the  respectable  inhabitants  are  opposed  to  the  lec- 
ture. Now,  I  wish  that  falsehood  to  be  visibly  contradicted. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  plan?  I  have  to-day  been  to  see 
several  of  my  friends,  who  will  make  a  point  of  being  there 
to  accompany  me,  and  will  communicate  with  others  on  the 
subject." 

"I'll  make  one,  Mr.  Tryan,  I'll  make  one.  You  shall  not 
be  wantin'  in  any  support  as  I  can  give.  Before  you  come  to 
it,  sir,  Milby  was  a  dead  an'  dark  place;  you  are  the  fust  nun 
i'  the  Church  to  my  knowledge  as  has  brought  the  word  o' 
God  home  to  the  people;  an'  I'll  stan'  by  you,  sir,  I'll  stan' 
by  you.  I'm  a  Dissenter,  Mr.  Tryan;  I've  been  a  Dissenter 
ever  sin'  I  was  fifteen  'ear  old;  but  show  me  good  i'  the 
Church,  an'  I'm  a  Churchman  too.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  lived 
at  Tilston;  you  mayn't  know  the  place;  the  best  part  o'  the 
land  there  belonged  to  Squire  Sandeman;  he'd  a  club-foot, 
had  Squire  Sandeman — lost  a  deal  o'  money  by  canal  shares. 
Well,  sir,  as  1  was  sayin',  I  lived  at  Tilston,  an'  the  rector 
there  was  a  terrible  drinkin',  fox-huntin'  man;  youniver  see'd 
such  a  parish  i'  your  time  for  wickedness;  Milby' s  nothin'  to 
it.  Well,  sir,  my  father  was  a  workin'  man,  an'  couldn't 
afford  to  gi'  me  ony  eddication,  so  I  went  to  a  night-school  as 
was  kep'  by  a  Dissenter,  one  Jacob  Wright;  an'  it  was  from 
that  man,  sir,  as  I  got  my  little  schoolin'  an'  my  knowledge 
o'  religion.  I  went  to  chapel  wi'  Jacob — he  was  a  good  man, 
was  Jacob — an'  to  chapel  I've  been  iver  since.  But  I'm  no 
enemy  o'  the  Church,  sir,  when  the  Church  brings  light  to  the 
ignorant  and  the  sinful;  an'  that's  what  you're  a-doin',  Mr. 
Tryan.  Yes,  sir,  I'll  stan'  by  you.  I'll  go  to  church  wi'  you 
o'  Sunday  evenin'." 

"  You'd  far  better  stay  at  home,  Mr.  Jerome,  if  I  may  give 
my  opinion,"  interposed  Mrs.  Jerome.  "It's  not  as  I  hevu't 
ivery  respect  for  you,  Mr.  Tryan,  but  Mr.  Jerome  'ull  do  you 
no  good  by  his  interferin'.  Dissenters  are  not  at  all  looked 
on  i'  Milby,  an*  he's  as  nervous  as  iver  he  can  be;  he'll  come 
back  as  ill  as  ill,  an'  niver  let  me  hev  a  wink  o'  sleep  all 
night." 

Mrs.  Jerome  had  been  frightened  at  the  mention  of  a  mob, 
and  her  retrospective  regard  for  the  religious  communion  of 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  271 

her  youth  by  no  means  inspired  her  with  the  temper  of  a  mar- 
tyr. Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  tender 
and  grieved  remonstrance,  which  might  have  been  that  of  the 
patient  patriarch  on  the  memorable  occasion  when  he  rebuked 
his  wife. 

"  Susan,  Susan,  let  me  beg  on  you  not  to  oppose  me,  and 
put  stumblin' -blocks  i'  the  way  o'  doin'  what's  right.  I  can't 
give  up  my  conscience,  let  me  give  up  what  else  I  may." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  feeling  slightly  uncomfortable, 
"  since  you  are  not  very  strong,  my  dear  sir,  it  will  be  well, 
as  Mrs.  Jerome  suggests,  that  you  should  not  run  the  risk  of 
any  excitement." 

"  Say  no  more,  Mr.  Tryan.  I'll  stan'  by  you,  sir.  It's  my 
duty.  It's  the  cause  o'  God,  sir;  it's  the  cause  o'  God." 

Mr.  Tryan  obeyed  his  impulse  of  admiration  and  gratitude, 
and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  white-haired  old  man,  saying, 
"Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  thank  you." 

Mr.  Jerome  grasped  the  proffered  hand  in  silence,  and  then 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  casting  a  regretful  look  at  his 
wife,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Why  don't  you  feel  with  me, 
Susan?" 

The  sympathy  of  this  simple-minded  old  man  was  more 
precious  to  Mr.  Tryan  than  any  mere  onlooker  could  have 
imagined.  To  persons  possessing  a  great  deal  of  that  facile 
psychology  which  prejudges  individuals  by  means  of  formulae, 
and  casts  them,  without  further  trouble,  into  duly  lettered 
pigeon-holes,  the  Evangelical  curate  might  seem  to  be  doing 
simply  what  all  other  men  like  to  do — carrying  out  objects 
which  were  identified  not  only  with  his  theory,  which  is  but  a 
kind  of  secondary  egoism,  but  also  with  the  primary  egoism  of 
his  feelings.  Opposition  may  become  sweet  to  a  man  when 
he  has  christened  it  persecution :  a  self -obtrusive,  over-hasty 
reformer  complacently  disclaiming  all  merit,  while  his  friends 
call  him  a  martyr,  has  not  in  reality  a  career  the  most  arduous 
to  the  fleshly  mind.  But  Mr.  Tryan  was  not  cast  in  the 
mould  of  the  gratuitous  martyr.  With  a  power  of  persistence 
which  had  been  often  blamed  as  obstinacy,  he  had  an  acute 
sensibility  to  the  very  hatred  or  ridicule  he  did  not  flinch  from 
provoking.  Every  form  of  disapproval  jarred  him  painfully ; 


272  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

and,  though  he  fronted  his  opponents  manfully,  and  often 
with  considerable  warmth  of  temper,  he  had  no  pugnacious 
pleasure  in  the  contest.  It  was  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  his 
nature  to  be  too  keenly  alive  to  every  harsh  wind  of  opinion ; 
to  wince  under  the  frowns  of  the  foolish ;  to  be  irritated  by 
the  injustice  of  those  who  could  not  possibly  have  the  elements 
indispensable  for  judging  him  rightly;  and  with  all  this  acute 
sensibility  to  blame,  this  dependence  on  sympathy,  he  had  for 
years  been  constrained  into  a  position  of  antagonism.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  good  old  Mr.  Jerome's  cordial  words  were 
balm  to  him.  He  had  often  been  thankful  to  an  old  woman 
for  saying  "  God  bless  you  " ;  to  a  little  child  for  smiling  at 
him;  to  a  dog  for  submitting  to  be  patted  by  him. 

Tea  being  over  by  this  time,  Mr.  Tryan  proposed  a  walk  in 
the  garden  as  a  means  of  dissipating  all  recollection  of  the 
recent  conjugal  dissidence.  Little  Lizzie's  appeal,  "  Me  go, 
gandpa!  "  could  not  be  rejected,  so  she  was  duly  bonneted  and 
pinafored,  and  then  they  turned  out  into  the  evening  sunshine. 
Not  Mrs.  Jerome,  however;  she  had  a  deeply  meditated  plan 
of  retiring  ad  interim  to  the  kitchen  and  washing  up  the  best 
tea-things,  as  a  mode  of  getting  forward  with  the  sadly  retarded 
business  of  the  day. 

"This  way,  Mr.  Tryan,  this  way,"  said  the  old  gentleman; 
"  I  must  take  you  to  niy  pastur  fust,  an'  show  you  our  cow — 
the  best  milker  i'  the  county.  An'  see  here  at  these  back- 
buildins,  how  convenent  the  dairy  is;  I  planned  it  ivery  bit 
myself.  An'  here  I've  got  nay  little  carpenter's  shop  an'  my 
blacksmith's  shop;  I  do  no  end  o'  jobs  here  myself.  I  niver 
could  bear  to  be  idle,  Mr.  Tryan ;  I  must  al'ys  be  at  somethin' 
or  other.  It  was  time  for  me  to  lay  by  business  an'  mek  room 
for  younger  folks.  I'd  got  money  enough,  wi'  only  one  daugh- 
ter to  leave  it  to,  an'  I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  it's  time  to  leave 
off  moitherin'  myself  wi'  this  world  so  much,  an'  give  more 
time  to  thinkin'  of  another.  But  there's  a  many  hours  atween 
getting  up  an'  lyin'  down,  an'  thoughts  are  no  cumber ;  you 
can  move  about  wi'  a  good  many  on  'em  hi  your  head.  See, 
here's  the  pastur." 

A  very  pretty  pasture  it  was,  where  the  large-spotted  short- 
horned  cow  quietly  chewed  the  cud  as  she  lay  and  looked 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  273 

sleepily  at  her  admirers— a  daintily  trimmed  hedge  all  round, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  a  mountain-ash  or  a  cherry-tree. 

"I've  a  good  bit  more  land  besides  this,  worth  your  while 
to  look  at,  but  mayhap  it's  further  nor  you'd  like  to  walk 
now.  Bless  you!  I've  welly  an  acre  o'  potato-ground  yonders ; 
I've  a  good  big  family  to  supply,  you  know."  (Here  Mr.  Je- 
rome winked  and  smiled  significantly.)  "An'  that  puts  me  i' 
mind,  Mr.  Tryan,  o'  summat  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Cler- 
gymen like  you,  I  know,  see  a  deal  more  poverty  an'  that, 
than  other  folks,  an'  hev  a  many  claims  on  'em  more  nor  they 
can  well  meet;  an'  if  you'll  mek  use  o'  my  purse  any  time, 
or  let  me  know  where  I  can  be  o'  any  help,  I'll  tek  it  very- 
kind  on  you." 

"  Thauk  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  I  will  do  so,  I  promise  you.  I 
saw  a  sad  case  yesterday ;  a  collier — a  fine  broad-chested  fel- 
low about  thirty — was  killed  by  the  falling  of  a  wall  in  the 
Paddiford  colliery.  I  was  in  one  of  the  cottages  near,  when 
they  brought  him  home  on  a  door,  and  the  shriek  of  his  wife 
has  been  ringing  in  my  ears  ever  since.  There  are  three  little 
children.  Happily  the  woman  has  her  loom,  so  she  will  be 
able  to  keep  out  of  the  workhouse ;  but  she  looks  very  deli- 
cate." 

"  Give  me  her  name,  Mr.  Tryan, "  said  Mr.  Jerome,  draw- 
ing out  his  pocket-book.  "  I'll  call  an'  see  her." 

Deep  was  the  fountain  of  pity  in  the  good  old  man's  heart! 
He  often  ate  his  dinner  stintingly,  oppressed  by  the  thought 
that  there  were  men,  women,  and  children  with  no  dinner  to 
sit  down  to,  and  would  relieve  his  mind  by  going  out  in  the 
afternoon  to  look  for  some  need  that  he  could  supply,  some 
honest  struggle  in  which  he  could  lend  a  helping  hand.  That 
any  living  being  should  want,  was  his  chief  sorrow ;  that  any 
rational  being  should  waste,  was  the  next.  Sally,  indeed, 
having  been  scolded  by  master  for  a  too  lavish  use  of  sticks  in 
lighting  the  kitchen  fire,  and  various  instances  of  recklessness 
with  regard  to  candle-ends,  considered  him  "  as  mean  as  aeny- 
think, "  but  he  had  as  kindly  a  warmth  as  the  morning  sun- 
light, and,  like  the  sunlight,  his  goodness  shone  on  all  that 
came  in  his  way,  from  the  saucy  rosy-cheeked  lad  whom  he 
delighted  to  make  happy  with  a  Christmas  box,  to  the  pallid 


274  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sufferers  up  dim  entries,  languishing  under  the  tardy  death  of 
want  and  misery. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  Mr.  Tryan  to  listen  to  the  simple 
chat  of  the  old  man — to  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  incomparable 
orchard,  and  hear  the  story  of  the  crops  yielded  by  the  red- 
streaked  apple-tree,  and  the  quite  embarrassing  plentifulness 
of  the  summer-pears — to  drink  in  the  sweet  evening  breath  of 
the  garden,  as  they  sat  in  the  alcove — and  so,  for  a  short 
interval,  to  feel  the  strain  of  his  pastoral  task  relaxed. 

Perhaps  he  felt  the  return  to  that  task  through  the  dusty 
roads  all  the  more  painfully,  perhaps  something  in  that  quiet 
shady  home  had  reminded  him  of  the  time  before  he  had  taken 
on  him  the  yoke  of  self-denial.  The  strongest  heart  will  faint1 
sometimes  under  the  feeling  that  enemies  are  bitter,  and  that 
friends  only  know  half  its  sorrows.  The  most  resolute  soul 
will  now  and  then  cast  back  a  yearning  look  in  treading  the 
rough  mountain-path,  away  from  the  greensward  and  laugh- 
ing voices  of  the  valley.  However  it  was,  in  the  nine  o'clock 
twilight  that  evening,  when  Mr.  Tryan  had  entered  his  small 
study  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  he  threw  himself  into 
the  chair  before  his  writing-table,  and,  heedless  of  the  papers 
there,  leaned  his  face  low  on  his  hand,  and  moaned  heavily. 

It  is  apt  to  be  so  in  this  life,  I  think.  While  we  are  coldly 
discussing  a  man's  career,  sneering  at  his  mistakes,  blaming 
his  rashness,  and  labelling  his  opinions — "Evangelical  and 
narrow,"  or  " Latitudinarian  and  Pantheistic,"  or  "Anglican 
and  supercilious  " — that  man,  in  his  solitude,  is  perhaps  shed- 
ding hot  tears  because  his  sacrifice  is  a  hard  one,  because 
strength  and  patience  are  failing  him  to  speak  the  difficult 
word,  and  do  the  difficult  deed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MR.  TRYAN  showed  no  such  symptoms  of  weakness  on  the 
critical  Sunday.  He  unhesitatingly  rejected  the  suggestion 
that  he  should  be  taken  to  church  in  Mr.  Lander's  carriage — 
a  proposition  which  that  gentleman  made  as  an  amendment 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  275 

on  the  original  plan,  when  the  rumors  of  meditated  insult  be- 
came alarming.  Mr.  Tryan  declared  he  would  have  no  pre- 
cautions taken,  but  would  simply  trust  in  God  and  this  good 
cause.  Some  of  his  more  timid  friends  thought  his  conduct 
rather  defiant  than  wise,  and  reflecting  that  a  mob  has  great 
talents  for  impromptu,  and  that  legal  redress  is  imperfect  sat- 
isfaction foi  having  one's  head  broken  with  a  brickbat,  were 
beginning  to  question  their  consciences  very  closely  as  to 
whether  it  was  not  a  duty  they  owed  to  their  families  to  stay 
at  home  on  Sunday  evening.  These  timorous  persons,  how- 
ever, were  in  a  small  minority,  and  the  generality  of  Mr.  Try- 
an's  friends  and  hearers  rather  exulted  in  an  opportunity  of 
braving  insult  for  the  sake  of  a  preacher  to  whom  they  were 
attached  on  personal  as  well  as  doctrinal  grounds.  Miss 
Pratt  spoke  of  Craniner,  Eidley,  and  Latimer,  and  observed 
that  the  present  crisis  afforded  an  occasion  for  emulating  their 
heroism  even  in  these  degenerate  times ;  while  less  highly  in- 
structed persons,  whose  memories  were  not  well  stored  with 
precedents,  simply  expressed  their  determination,  as  Mr.  Je- 
rome had  done,  to  "  stan'  by "  the  preacher  and  his  cause, 
believing  it  to  be  the  "cause  of  God." 

One  Sunday  evening,  then,  at  a  quarter  past  six,  Mr.  Tryan, 
setting  out  from  Mr.  Landor's  with  a  party  of  his  friends  who 
had  assembled  there,  was  soon  joined  by  two  other  groups 
from  Mr.  Pratt's  and  Mr.  Dunn's;  and  stray  persons  on  their 
way  to  church  naturally  falling  into  rank  behind  this  leading 
file,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  entrance  of  Orchard  Street, 
Mr.  Tryan' s  friends  formed  a  considerable  procession,  walk- 
ing three  or  four  abreast.  It  was  in  Orchard  Street,  and 
toward  the  church  gates,  that  the  chief  crowd  was  collected ; 
and  at  Mr.  Dempster's  drawing-room  window,  on  the  upper 
floor,  a  more  select  assembly  of  Anti-Tryanites  were  gathered 
to  witness  the  entertaining  spectacle  of  the  Tryanites  walking 
to  church  amidst  the  jeers  and  hootings  of  the  crowd. 

To  prompt  the  popular  wit  with  appropriate  sobriquets, 
numerous  copies  of  Mr.  Dempster's  play-bill  were  posted  on 
the  walls,  in  suitably  large  and  emphatic  type.  As  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  most  industrious  collector  of  mural  literature 
may  not  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  possess  himself  of  this 


276  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

production,  which  ought  by  all  raeaus  to  be  preserved  amongst 
the  materials  of  our  provincial  religious  history,  I  subjoin  a 
faithful  copy. 

GRAND  ENTERTAINMENT !    !    ! 

To  be  given  at  Milby  on  Sunday  evening  next,  by  the 

FAMOUS  COMEDIAN,  TRY-IT-ON ! 
And  his  first-rate  Company,  including  not  only  an 

UNPARALLELED  CAST  FOR  COMEDY  ! 
But  a  Large  Collection  of  reclaimed  and  converted  Animals; 

Among  the  rest 

A  Bear,  who  used  to  dance  ! 

A  Parrot,  once  given  to  swearing !  ! 

A  Polygamous  Pig !  !  ! 

and 
A  Monkey  who  used  to  catch  fleas  on  a  Sunday !  !  I  ! 

Together  with  a 

Pair  of  regenerated  LINNETS  ! 

With  an  entirely  new  song,  and  plumage. 

MR.  TRY-IT-ON 

Will  first  pass  through  the  streets,  in  procession,  with  his  unrivalled 
Company,  warranted  to  have  their  eyes  turned  up  higher,  and  the  cor- 
ners of  their  mouths  turned  down  lower,  than  any  other  company  of 
Mountebanks  in  this  circuit ! 

AFTER  WHICH 

The  Theatre  will  be  opened,  and  the  entertainment  will 
commence  at  HALF-PAST  Six, 

When  will  be  presented 
A  piece,  never  before  performed  on  any  stage,  entitled, 

THE  WOLF  IN  SHEEP'S  CLOTHING; 

or 
THE  METHODIST  IN  A  MASK. 

Mr.  Boanerges  Soft  Sawder,  ....  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON. 

Old  Ten  per-cent  Godly,        ....  Mr.  GANDER. 

Dr.  Feedemup,      ......  Mr.  TONIC. 

Mr.  Lime-Twig  Lady-winner,       .         .         .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON. 

Miss  Piety  Bait-the-hook,     .         .         .  Miss  TONIC. 

Angelica,        ......  Miss  SERAPHINA  TONIC. 

After  which 

A  miscellaneous  Musical  Interlude,  commencing  with 

The  Lamentations  of  Jerom-iah ! 

In  nasal  recitative. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  277 

To  be  followed  by 
The  favorite  Cackling  Quartet 

by 

Two  hen-birds  who  are  no  chickens  ! 
The  well-known  counter  -tenor,  Mr.  Done,  and  a  Gander, 
lineally  descended  from  the  Goose  that  laid  golden  eggs  ! 

To  conclude  with  a 

GRAND  Cnoi:rs  by  tho 

Entire  Orchestra  of  converted  Animals  !  ! 

But  owing  to  the  unavoidable  absence  (from  illness)  of  the  Bulldog, 
who  has  left  off  fighting,  Mr.  Tonic  has  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  moment's 
notice,  to  supply  the  "  bark  I " 

The  whole  to  conclude  with  a 

Screaming  farce  of 
THE  PULPIT  SNATCHER. 

Mr.  Saintly  Smooth-Face,     .  .  .  Mr.  TRT-IT-ON  ! 

Mr.  Worming  Sneaker,          .  .  .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !  ! 

Mr.  All-grace  No-works,        .  .  .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !  !  ! 

Mr.  Elect-and-Chosen  Apewell,  .  .  Mr.  TRT-IT-ON  !  !  !    ! 

Mr.  Malevolent  Prayerful,     .  .  .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !  I  !    !    I 

Mr.  Foist-hirnself-everywhere,  .  .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !  1  !    I    I    ! 

Mr.  Flout-the-aged  Upstart,  .  .  .  Mr.  TRY-IT-ON  !!!!!!! 

Admission  Free.     A  Collection  will  be  made  at  the  Doors. 
Vivat  Rex ! 

This  satire,  though  it  presents  the  keenest  edge  of  Milby 
wit,  does  not  strike  you  as  lacerating,  I  imagine.  But  hatred 
is  like  lire — it  makes  even  light  rubbish  deadly.  And  Mr. 
Dempster's  sarcasms  were  not  merely  visible  on  the  walls; 
they  were  reflected  iu  the  derisive  glances,  and  audible  in  the 
jeering  voices  of  the  crowd.  Through  this  pelting  shower  of 
nicknames  and  bad  puns,  with  an  ad  libitum,  accompaniment 
of  groans,  howls,  hisses,  and  hee-haws,  but  of  no  heavier  mis- 
siles, Mr.  Tryan  walked  pale  and  composed,  giving  his  arm 
to  old  Mr.  Landor,  whose  step  was  feeble.  On  the  other  side 
of  him  was  Mr.  Jerome,  who  still  walked  firmly,  though  his 
shoulders  were  slightly  bowed. 

Outwardly  Mr.  Tryan  was  composed,  but  inwardly  he  was 
suffering  acutely  from  these  tones  of  hatred  and  scorn.  How- 
ever strong  his  consciousness  of  right,  he  found  it  no  stronger 


278  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

armor  against  such  weapons  as  derisive  glances  and  virulent 
words,  than  against  stones  and  clubs :  his  conscience  was  in 
repose,  but  his  sensibility  was  bruised. 

Once  more  only  did  the  Evangelical  curate  pass  up  Orchard 
Street  followed  by  a  train  of  friends ;  once  more  only  was  there 
a  crowd  assembled  to  witness  his  entrance  through  the  church 
gates.  But  that  second  time  no  voice  was  heard  above  a  whis- 
per, and  the  whispers  were  words  of  sorrow  and  blessing. 
That  second  time  Janet  Dempster  was  not  looking  on  in  scorn 
and  merriment;  her  eyes  were  worn  with  grief  and  watching, 
and  she  was  following  her  beloved  friend  and  pastor  to  the 
grave. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HISTORY,  we  know,  is  apt  to  repeat  herself,  and  to  foist 
very  old  incidents  upon  us  with  only  a  slight  change  of  cos- 
tume. From  the  time  of  Xerxes  downwards,  we  have  seen 
generals  playing  the  braggadocio  at  the  outset  of  their  cam- 
paigns, and  conquering  the  enemy  with  the  greatest  ease  in 
after-dinner  speeches.  But  events  are  apt  to  be  in  disgusting 
discrepancy  with  the  anticipations  of  the  most  ingenious  tacti- 
cians ;  the  difficulties  of  the  expedition  are  ridiculously  at  vari- 
ance with  able  calculations;  the  enemy  has  the  impudence 
not  to  fall  into  confusion  as  had  been  reasonably  expected  of 
him ;  the  mind  of  the  gallant  general  begins  to  be  distracted 
by  news  of  intrigues  against  him  at  home,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  handsome  compliments  he  paid  to  Providence  as  his 
undoubted  patron  before  setting  out,  there  seems  every  prob- 
ability that  the  Te  Deums  will  be  all  on  the  other  side. 

So  it  fell  out  with  Mr.  Dempster  in  his  memorable  cam- 
paign against  the  Tryanites.  After  all  the  premature  triumph 
of  the  return  from  Elmstoke,  the  battle  of  the  Evening  Lec- 
ture had  been  lost;  the  enemy  was  in  possession  of  the  field; 
and  the  utmost  hope  remaining  was,  that  by  a  harassing  guer- 
illa warfare  he  might  be  driven  to  evacuate  the  country. 

For  some  time  this  sort  of  warfare  was  kept  up  with  consid- 
erable spirit.  The  shafts  of  Milby  ridicule  were  made  more 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  279 

formidable  by  being  poisoned  with  calumny ;  and  very  ugly 
stories,  narrated  with  circumstantial  minuteness,  were  soon  in 
circulation  concerning  Mr.  Tryan  and  his  hearers,  from  which 
stories  it  was  plainly  deducible  that  Evangelicalism  led  by 
a  necessary  consequence  to  hypocritical  indulgence  in  vice. 
Some  old  friendships  were  broken  asunder,  and  there  were 
near  relations  who  felt  that  religious  differences,  unmitigated 
by  any  prospect  of  a  legacy,  were  a  sufficient  ground  for  exhib- 
iting their  family  antipathy.  Mr.  Budd  harangued  his  work- 
men, and  threatened  them  with  dismissal  if  they  or  their  fam- 
ilies were  known  to  attend  the  evening  lecture;  and  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  on  discovering  that  his  foreman  was  a  rank  Tryan- 
ite,  blustered  to  a  great  extent,  and  would  have  cashiered  that 
valuable  functionary  on  the  spot,  if  such  a  retributive  proced- 
ure had  not  been  inconvenient. 

On  the  whole,  however,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  the 
balance  of  substantial  loss  was  on  the  side  of  the  Anti-Tryan- 
ites.  Mr.  Pratt,  indeed,  had  lost  a  patient  or  two  besides  Mr. 
Dempster's  family;  but  as  it  was  evident  that  Evangelicalism 
had  not  dried  up  the  stream  of  his  anecdote,  or  in  the  least 
altered  his  view  of  any  lady's  constitution,  it  is  probable  that 
a  change  accompanied  by  so  few  outward  and  visible  signs, 
was  rather  the  pretext  than  the  ground  of  his  dismissal  in 
those  additional  cases.  Mr.  Dunn  was  theatened  with  the  loss 
of  several  good  customers,  Mrs.  Phipps  and  Mrs.  Lowme  hav- 
ing sst  the  example  of  ordering  him  to  send  in  his  bill ;  and 
the  draper  began  to  look  forward  to  his  next  stock-taking  with 
an  anxiety  which  was  but  slightly  mitigated  by  the  parallel 
his  wife  suggested  between  his  own  case  and  that  of  Shadrach, 
Meshech,  and  Abednego,  who  were  thrust  into  a  burning  fiery 
furnace.  For,  as  he  observed  to  her  the  next  morning,  with 
that  perspicacity  which  belongs  to  the  period  of  shaving, 
whereas  their  deliverance  consisted  in  the  fact  that  their  linen 
and  woollen  goods  were  not  consumed,  his  own  deliverance 
lay  in  precisely  the  opposite  result.  But  convenience,  that 
admirable  branch  system  from  the  main  line  of  self-interest, 
makes  us  all  fellow-helpers  in  spite  of  adverse  resolutions.  It 
is  probable  that  no  speculative  or  theological  hatred  would  be 
ultimately  strong  enough  to  resist  the  persuasive  power  of 


280  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

convenience*:  that  a  latitudinarian  baker,  whose  bread  was 
honorably  free  from  alum,  would  command  the  custom  of  any 
dyspeptic  Puseyite;  that  an  Arminian  with  the  toothache 
would  prefer  a  skilful  Calvinistic  dentist  to  a  bungler  stanch 
against  the  doctrines  of  Election  and  Final  Perseverance,  who 
would  be  likely  to  break  the  tooth  in  his  head ;  and  that  a 
Plymouth  Brother,  who  had  a  well-furnished  grocery-shop  in 
a  favorable  vicinage,  would  occasionally  have  the  pleasure  of 
furnishing  sugar  or  vinegar  to  orthodox  families  that  found 
themselves  unexpectedly  "out  of"  those  indispensable  com- 
modities. In  this  persuasive  power  of  convenience  lay  Mr. 
Dunn's  ultimate  security  from  martyrdom.  His  drapery  was 
the  best  in  Milby ;  the  comfortable  use  and  wont  of  procuring 
satisfactory  articles  at  a  moment's  notice  proved  too  strong  for 
Anti-Tryanite  zeal ;  and  the  draper  could  soon  loo1-:  forv\  -ml  to 
his  next  stock-taking  without  the  support  of  a.  Scriptural 
parallel. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Dempster  had  lost  his  excellent 
client,  Mr.  Jerome — a  loss  which  galled  him  out  of  proportion 
to  the  mere  monetary  deficit  it  represented.  The  attorney 
loved  money,  but  he  loved  power  still  better.  He  had  always 
been  proud  of  having  early  won  the  confidence  of  a  conventi- 
cle-goer, and  of  being  able  to  "  turn  the  prop  of  Salem  round 
his  thumb."  Like  most  other  men,  too,  he  had  a  certain  kind- 
ness toward  those  who  had  employed  him  when  he  was  only 
starting  in  life;  and  just  as  we  do  not  like  to  part  with  an  old 
weather-glass  from  our  study,  or  a  two-feet  ruler  that  we  havo 
carried  in  our  pocket  ever  since  we  began  business,  so  Mr. 
Dempster  did  not  like  having  to  erase  his  old  client's  name 
from  the  accustomed  drawer  in  the  bureau.  Our  habitual  life 
ir,  like  a  wall  hung  with  pictures,  which  has  been  shone  on  by 
the  suns  of  many  years :  take  one  of  the  pictures  away,  and  it 
leaves  a  definite  blank  space,  to  which  our  eyes  can  never 
turn  without  a  sensation  of  discomfort.  Xay,  the  involuntary 
loss  of  any  familiar  object  almost  always  brings  a  chill  as 
from  an  evil  omen ;  it  seems  to  be  the  first  finger-shadow  of 
advancing  death. 

From  all  these  causes  combined,  Mr.  Dempster  could  never 
think  of  his  lost  client  without  strong  irritation,  and  the  very 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  281 

sight  of  Mr.  Jerome  passing  in  the  street  VM.-J  wormwood  to 
him. 

One  day,  when  the  old  gentleman  was  coming  up  Orchard 
Street  OH  his  roan  mare,  shaking  the  bridle,  and  tickling  her 
flank  wi'li  the  whip  as  usual,  though  there  was  a  perfect;  :r.u- 
tual  understanding  that  she  was  not  to  quicken  her  pace,  Janet 
happened  to  be  on  her  own  door-step,  and  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  stopping  to  speak  to  that  "  nice  little  wom- 
an," as  he  always  called  her,  though  she  was  taller  than  all 
the  rest  of  his  feminine  acquaintances.  Janet,  i.i  spite  of  her 
disposition  to  take  her  husband's  part  in  all  public  matters, 
could  bear  no  malice  against  her  old  friend ;  so  they  shook 
hands. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Dempster,  I'm  sorry  to  my  heart  not  to  see 
you  sometimes,  that  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  plaintive 
tone.  "But  if  you've  got  any  poor  people  as  wants  help,  and 
you  know's  deservin',  send  'em  to  me,  send  'em  to  me,  just 
the  same." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  that  I  will.     Good-by." 

Janet  made  the  interview  as  short  as  she  could,  but  it  was 
not  short  enough  to  escape  the  observation  of  her  husband, 
who,  as  she  feared,  was  on  his  mid-day  return  from  his  office 
at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  and  this  offence  of  hers,  in 
speaking  to  Mr.  Jerome,  was  the  frequently  recurring  theme 
of  Mr.  Dempster's  objurgatory  domestic  eloquence. 

Associating  the  loss  of  his  old  client  with  Mr.  Tryan's  influ- 
ence, Dempster  began  to  know  more  distinctly  why  he  hated 
the  obnoxious  curate.  But  a  passionate  hate,  as  well  as  a  pas- 
sionate love,  demands  some  leisure  and  mental  freedom.  Per- 
secution and  revenge,  like  courtship  and  toadyism,  will  not 
prosper  without  a  considerable  expenditure  of  time  and  inge- 
nuity, and  these  are  not  to  spare  willi  a  man  whose  law -busi- 
ness and  liver  are  both  beginning  to  show  unpleasant  symp- 
toms. Such  was  the  disagreeable  turn  affairs  were  taking 
with  Mr.  Dempster,  and,  like  the  general  distracted  l.y  home 
intrigues,  he  was  too  much  harassed  himself  to  lay  ingenious 
plans  for  harassing  the  enemy. 

Meanwhile,  the  evening  lecture  drew  larger  and  larger  con- 
gregations ;  not  perhaps  attracting  many  from  that  select  aris- 


282  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tocratic  circle  in  which  the  Lowmes  and  Pittmans  were  pre- 
dominant, but  winning  the  larger  proportion  of  Mr.  Crewe's 
morning  and  afternoon  hearers,  and  thinning  Mr.  Stickney's 
evening  audiences  at  Salem.  Evangelicalism  was  making  its 
way  in  Milby,  and  gradually  diffusing  its  subtle  odor  into 
chambers  that  were  bolted  and  barred  against  it.  The  move- 
ment, like  all  other  religious  "revivals,"  had  a  mixed  effect. 
Religious  ideas  have  the  fate  of  melodies,  which,  once  set 
afloat  in  the  world,  are  taken  up  by  all  sorts  of  instruments, 
some  of  them  wofully  coarse,  feeble,  or  out  of  tune,  until  peo- 
ple are  in  danger  of  crying  out  that  the  melody  itself  is  detest- 
able. It  may  be  that  some  of  Mr.  Tryan's  hearers  had 
gained  a  religious  vocabulary  rather  than  religious  experience ; 
that  here  and  there  a  weaver' s  wife,  who,  a  few  mouths  be- 
fore, had  been  simply  a  silly  slattern,  was  converted  into  that 
more  complex  nuisance,  a  silly  and  sanctimonious  slattern; 
that  the  old  Adam,  with  the  pertinacity  of  middle  age,  con- 
tinued to  tell  fibs  behind  the  counter,  notwithstanding  the  new 
Adam's  addiction  to  Bible-reading  and  family  prayer;  that 
the  children  in  the  Paddiford  Sunday-school  had  their  mem- 
ories crammed  with  phrases  about  the  blood  of  cleansing,  im- 
puted righteousness,  and  justification  by  faith  alone,  which 
an  experience  lying  principally  in  chuck-farthing,  hop-scotch, 
parental  slappings,  and  longings  after  unattainable  lollypop, 
served  rather  to  darken  than  to  illustrate ;  and  that  at  Milby, 
ia  those  distant  days,  as  in  all  other  times  and  places  where 
the  mental  atmosphere  is  changing,  and  men  are  inhaling  the 
stimulus  of  new  ideas,  folly  often  mistook  itself  for  wisdom, 
ignorance  gave  itself  airs  of  knowledge,  and  selfishness,  turn- 
ing its  eyes  upward,  called  itself  religion. 

Nevertheless,  Evangelicalism  has  brought  into  palpable 
existence  and  operation  in  Milby  society  that  idea  of  duty, 
that  recognition  of  something  to  be  lived  for  beyond  the  mere 
satisfaction  of  self,  which  is  to  the  moral  life  what  the  addi- 
tion of  a  great  central  ganglion  is  to  animal  life.  No  man  can 
begin  to  mould  himself  on  a  faith  or  an  idea  without  rising  to 
a  higher  order  of  experience :  a  principle  of  subordination,  of 
self-mastery,  has  been  introduced  into  his  nature;  he  is  no 
longer  a  mere  bundle  of  impressions,  desires,  and  impulses. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  283 

"Whatever  might  be  the  weaknesses  of  the  ladies  who  pruned 
the  luxuriance  of  their  lace  and  ribbons,  cut  out  garments  for 
the  poor,  distributed  tracts,  quoted  Scripture,  and  defined  the 
true  Gospel,  they  had  learned  this — that  there  was  a  divine 
work  to  be  done  in  life,  a  rule  of  goodness  higher  than  the 
opinion  of  their  neighbors ;  and  if  the  notion  of  a  heaven  in 
reserve  for  themselves  was  a  little  too  prominent,  yet  the  the- 
ory of  fitness  for  that  heaven  consisted  in  purity  of  heart,  in 
Christ-like  compassion,  in  the  subduing  of  selfish  desires. 
They  might  give  the  name  of  piety  to  much  that  was  only 
puritanic  egoism;  they  might  call  many  things  sin  that  were 
not  sin ;  but  they  had  at  least  the  feeling  that  sin  was  to  be 
avoided  and  resisted,  and  color-blindness,  which  may  mistake 
drab  for  scarlet,  is  better  than  total  blindness,  which  sees  no 
distinction  of  color  at  all.  Miss  Rebecca  Linnet,  in  quiet 
attire,  with  a  somewhat  excessive  solemnity  of  countenance, 
teaching  at  the  Sunday-school,  visiting  the  poor,  and  striving 
after  a  standard  of  purity  and  goodness,  had  surely  more 
moral  loveliness  than  in  those  flaunting  peony-days,  when  she 
had  no  other  model  than  the  costumes  of  the  heroines  in  the 
circulating  library.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  listening  in  rapt  atten- 
tion to  Mr.  Tryan's  evening  lecture,  no  doubt  found  evangeli- 
cal channels  for  vanity  and  egoism ;  but  she  was  clearly  in 
moral  advance  of  Miss  Phipps  giggling  under  her  feathers  at 
old  Mr.  Ore  we' s  peculiarities  of  enunciation.  And  even 
elderly  fathers  and  mothers,  with  minds,  like  Mrs.  Linnet's, 
too  tough  to  imbibe  much  doctrine,  were  the  better  for  having 
their  hearts  inclined  toward  the  new  preacher  as  a  messen- 
ger from  God.  They  became  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  their  evil 
tempers,  ashamed  of  their  worldliness,  ashamed  of  their  trivial, 
futile  past.  The  first  condition  of  human  goodness  is  some- 
thing to  love ;  the  second,  something  to  reverence.  And  this 
latter  precious  |gift  was  brought  to  Milby  by  Mr.  Tryan  and 
Evangelicalism. 

Yes,  the  movement  was  good,  though  it  had  that  mixture 
of  folly  and  evil  which  often  makes  what  is  good  an  offence  to 
feeble  and  fastidious  minds,  who  want  human  actions  and 
characters  riddled  through  the  sieve  of  their  own  ideas,  before 
they  can  accord  their  sympathy  or  admiration.  Such  minds, 


284  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

I  dare  say,  would  have  found  Mr.  Tryan's  character  very 
much  hi  need  of  that  riddling  process.  The  blessed  work  of 
helping  the  world  forward,  happily  does  not  wait  to  be  done 
by  perfect  men;  and  I  should  imagine  that  neither  Luther  nor 
John  Bunyan,  for  example,  would  have  satisfied  the  modern 
demand  for  an  ideal  hero,  who  believes  nothing  but  what  is 
true,  feels  nothing  but  what  is  exalted,  and  does  nothing  but 
what  is  graceful.  The  real  heroes,  of  God's  making,  are  quite 
different :  they  have  their  natural  heritage  of  love  and  con- 
science which  they  drew  in  with  their  mother's  milk;  they 
know  one  or  two  of  those  deep  spiritual  truths  which  are  only 
to  be  won  by  long  wrestling  with  their  own  sins  and  their  own 
sorrows ;  they  have  earned  faith  and  strength  so  far  as  they 
have  done  genuine  work;  but  the  rest  is  dry  barren  theory, 
blank  prejudice,  vague  hearsay.  Their  insight  is  blended  with 
mere  opinion ;  their  sympathy  is  perhaps  confined  in  narrow 
conduits  of  doctrine,  instead  of  flowing  forth  with  the  freedom 
of  a  stream  that  blesses  every  weed  in  its  course;  obstinacy 
or  self-assertion  will  often  interfuse  itself  with  their  grandest 
impulses ;  and  their  very  deeds  of  self-sacrifice  are  sometimes 
only  the  rebound  of  a  passionate  egoism.  So  it  was  with  Mr. 
Tryan:  and  any  one  looking  at  him  with  the  bird's-eye  glance 
of  a  critic  might  perhaps  say  that  he  made  the  mistake  of 
identifying  Christianity  with  a  too  narrow  doctrinal  system; 
that  he  saw  God's  work  too  exclusively  in  antagonism  to  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil ;  that  his  intellectual  culture 
was  too  limited — and  so  on ;  making  Mr.  Tryan  the  text  for  a 
wise  discourse  on  the  characteristics  of  the  Evangelical  school 
in  his  day. 

But  I  am  not  poised  at  that  lofty  height.  I  am  on  the  level 
and  in  the  press  with  him,  as  he  struggles  his  way  along  the 
stony  road,  through  the  crowd  of  unloving  fellow-men.  He  is 
stumbling,  perhaps;  his  heart  now  beats  fast  with  dread,  now 
heavily  with  anguish ;  his  eyes  are  sometimes  dim  with  tears, 
which  he  makes  haste  to  dash  away ;  he  pushes  manfully  on, 
with  fluctuating  faith  and  courage,  with  a  sensitive  failing 
body ;  at  last  he  falls,  the  struggle  is  ended,  and  the  crowd 
closes  over  the  space  he  has  left. 

"  One  of  the  Evangelical  clergy,  a  disciple  of  Venn, "  says 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  285 

the  critic  from  his  bird's-eye  station.  "  Not  a  remarkable 
specimen ;  the  anatomy  and  habits  of  his  species  have  been 
determined  long  ago." 

Yet  surely,  surely  the  only  true  knowledge  of  our  fellow- 
man  is  that  which  enables  us  to  feel  with  him — which  gives 
us  a  fine  ear  for  the  heart-pulses  that  are  beating  under  the 
mere  clothes  of  circumstance  and  opinion.  Our  subtlest  anal- 
ysis of  schools  and  sects  must  miss  the  essential  truth,  unless 
it  be  lit  up  by  the  love  that  sees  in  all  forms  of  human  thought 
and  work,  the  life  and  death  struggles  of  separate  human 
beings. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

MB.  TRYAN'S  most  unfriendly  observers  were  obliged  to 
admit  that  he  gave  himself  no  rest.  Three  sermons  on  Sun- 
day, a  night-school  or  young  men  on  Tuesday,  a  cottage-lec- 
ture on  Thursday,  addresses  to  school-teachers,  and  catechis- 
ing of  school-children,  with  pastoral  visits,  multiplying  as 
his  influence  extended  beyond  his  own  district  of  Paddiford 
Common,  Avould  have  been  enough  to  tax  severely  the  powers 
of  a  much  stronger  man.  Mr.  Pratt  remonstrated  with  him 
on  his  imprudence,  but  could  not  prevail  on  him  so  far  to 
economize  time  and  strength  as  to  keep  a  horse.  On  some 
ground  or  other,  which  his  friends  found  difficult  to  explain  to 
themselves,  Mr.  Tryan  seemed  bent  on  wearing  himself  out. 
His  enemies  were  at  no  loss  to  account  for  such  a  course. 
The  Evangelical  curate's  selfishness  was  clearly  of  too  bad  a 
kind  to  exhibit  itself  after  the  ordinary  manner  of  a  sound, 
respectable  selfishness.  "  He  wants  to  get  the  reputation  of 
a  saint,"  said  one;  "He's  eaten  up  with  spiritual  pride,"  said 
another;  "He's  got  his  eye  on  some  fine  living,  and  wants  to 
creep  up  the  Bishop's  sleeve,"  said  a  third. 

Mr.  Stickney,  of  Salem,  who  considered  all  voluntary  dis- 
comfort as  a  remnant  of  the  legal  spirit,  pronounced  a  severe 
condemnation  on  this  self -neglect,  and  expressed  his  fear  that 
Mr.  Tryan  was  still  far  from  having  attained  true  Christian 
liberty.  Good  Mr.  Jerome  eagerly  seized  this  doctrinal  view 


286  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

of  the  subject  as  a  means  of  enforcing  the  suggestions  of  his 
own  benevolence;  and  one  cloudy  afternoon,  in  the  end  of 
November,  he  mounted  his  roan  mare  with  the  determination 
of  riding  to  Paddif ord  and  "  arguying "  the  point  with  Mr. 
Try  an. 

The  old  gentleman's  face  looked  very  mournful  as  he  rode 
along  the  dismal  Paddif  ord  lanes,  between  rows  of  grimy 
houses,  darkened  with  hand-looms,  while  the  black  dust  was 
whirled  about  him  by  the  cold  November  wind.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  object  which  had  brought  him  ou  this  after- 
noon ride,  and  his  thoughts,  according  to  his  habit  when  alone, 
found  vent  every  now  and  then  in  audible  speech.  It  seemed 
to  him,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  this  scene  of  Mr.  Try  an' s  labors, 
that  he  could  understand  the  clergyman's  self-privation  with- 
out resorting  to  Mr.  Stickney's  theory  of  defective  spiritual 
enlightenment.  Do  not  philosophic  doctors  tell  us  that  we  are 
unable  to  discern  so  much  as  a  tree,  except  by  an  unconscious 
cunning  which  combines  many  past  and  separate  sensations; 
that  no  one  sense  is  independent  of  another,  so  that  in  the 
dark  we  can  hardly  taste  a  fricassee,  or  tell  whether  our  pipe 
is  alight  or  not,  and  the  most  intelligent  boy,  if  accommo- 
dated with  claws  or  hoofs  instead  of  fingers,  would  be  likely 
to  remain  on  the  lowest  form?  If  so,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
that  our  discernment  of  men's  motives  must  depend  on  the 
completeness  of  the  elements  we  can  bring  from  our  own  sus- 
ceptibility and  our  own  experience.  See  to  it,  friend,  before 
you  pronounce  a  too  hasty  judgment,  that  your  own  moral 
sensibilities  are  not  of  a  hoofed  or  clawed  character.  The 
keenest  eye  will  not  serve,  unless  you  have  the  delicate  fin- 
gers, with  their  subtle  nerve-filaments,  which  elude  scientific 
lenses,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  invisible  world  of  human 
sensations. 

As  for  Mr.  Jerome,  he  drew  the  elements  of  his  moral 
vision  from  the  depths  of  his  veneration  and  pity.  If  he  him- 
self felt  so  much  for  these  poor  things  to  whom  life  was  so  dim 
and  meagre,  what  must  the  clergyman  feel  who  had  undertaken 
before  God  to  be  their  shepherd? 

"Ah!"  he  whispered, . interruptedly,  "it's  too  big  a  load 
for  his  conscience,  poor  man!  He  wants  to  mek  himself  their 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  287 

brother,  like ;  can't  abide  to  preach  to  the  fastin'  on  a  full 
stomach.  Ah!  he's  better  nor  we  are,  that's  it — he's  a  deal 
better  nor  we  are." 

Here  Mr.  Jerome  shook  his  bridle  violently,  and  looked  up 
with  an  air  of  moral  courage,  as  if  Mr.  Stickney  had  been 
present,  and  liable  to  take  offence  at  this  conclusion.  A  few 
minutes  more  brought  him  in  front  of  Mrs.  Wagstaff's,  where 
Mr.  Tryan  lodged.  He  had  often  been  here  before,  so  that 
the  contrast  between  this  ugly  square  brick  house,  with  its 
shabby  bit  of  grass  plot,  stared  at  all  round  by  cottage  win- 
dows, and  his  own  pretty  white  home,  set  in  a  paradise  of 
orchard  and  garden  and  pasture,  was  not  new  to  him ;  but  he 
felt  it  with  fresh  force  to-day,  as  he  slowly  fastened  his  roan 
by  the  bridle  to  the  wooden  paling,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
Mr.  Tryan  was  at  home,  and  sent  to  request  that  Mr.  Jerome 
would  walk  up  into  his  study,  as  the  fire  was  out  in  the  parlor 
below. 

At  the  mention  of  a  clergyman's  study,  perhaps,  your  too 
active  imagination  conjures  up  a  perfect  snuggery,  where  the 
general  air  of  comfort  is  rescued  from  a  secular  character  by 
strong  ecclesiastical  suggestions  in  the  shape  of  the  furniture, 
the  pattern  of  the  carpet,  and  the  prints  on  the  wall;  where, 
if  a  nap  is  taken,  it  is  in  an  easy-chair  with  a  Gothic  back, 
and  the  very  feet  rest  on  a  warm  and  velvety  simulation  of 
church  windows ;  where  the  pure  art  of  rigorous  English  Prot- 
estantism smiles  above  the  mantelpiece  in  the  portrait  of  an 
eminent  bishop,  or  a  refined  Anglican  taste  is  indicated  by  a 
German  print  from  Overbeck ;  where  the  walls  are  lined  with 
choice  divinity  in  sombre  binding,  and  the  light  is  softened  by 
a  screen  of  boughs  with  a  gray  church  in  the  background. 

But  I  must  beg  you  to  dismiss  all  such  scenic  prettiuess, 
suitable  as  they  may  be  to  a  clergyman's  character  and  com- 
plexion ;  for  I  have  to  confess  that  Mr.  Tryan' s  study  was  a 
very  ugly  little  room  indeed,  with  an  ugly  slap-dash  pattern 
on  the  walls,  an  ugly  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  an  ugly  view  of 
cottage  roofs  and  cabbage-gardens  from  the  window.  His  own 
person,  his  writing-table,  and  his  book-case,  were  the  only 
objects  in  the  room  that  had  the  slightest  air  of  refinement; 
and  the  sole  provision  for  comfort  was  a  clumsy  straight- 


288  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

backed  arm-chair,  covered  with  faded  chintz.  The  man  who 
could  live  in  such  a  room,  unconstrained  by  poverty,  must 
either  have  his  vision  fed  from  within  by  an  intense  passion, 
or  he  must  have  chosen  that  least  attractive  form  of  self -mor- 
tification which  wears  no  haircloth  and  has  no  meagre  days, 
but  accepts  the  vulgar,  the  commonplace,  and  the  ugly,  when- 
ever the  highest  duty  seems  to  lie  among  them. 

"Mr.  Tryan,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  disturbin'  on  you," 
said  Mr.  Jerome;  "but  I'd  surnmat  partickler  to  say." 

"You  don't  disturb  me  at  all,  Mr.  Jerome;  I'm  very  glad 
to  have  a  visit  from  you, "  said  Mr.  Tryan,  shaking  him  heart- 
ily by  the  hand,  and  offering  him  the  chintz-covered  "  easy  " 
chair;  "it  is  some  time  since  I've  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing you,  except  on  a  Sunday. " 

"Ah,  sir!  your  time's  so  taken  up,  I'm  well  aware  o'  that; 
it's  not  only  what  you  hev  to  do,  but  it's  goin'  about  from 
place  to  place;  an'  you  don't  keep  a  hoss,  Mr.  Tryan.  You 
don't  take  care  enough  o'  yourself — you  don't  indeed,  an' 
that's  what  I  come  to  talk  to  y'  about." 

"  That's  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Jerome ;  but  I  assure  you  I 
think  walking  does  me  no  harm.  It  is  rather  a  relief  to  me 
after  speaking  or  writing.  You  know  I  have  no  great  circuit 
to  make.  The  farthest  distance  I  have  to  walk  is  to  Milby 
Church,  and  if  ever  I  want  a  horse  on  Sunday,  I  hire  Kad- 
ley's,  who  lives  not  many  hundred  yards  from  me." 

"Well,  but  now!  the  winter's  comin'  on,  an'  you'll  get  wet 
i'  your  feet,  an'  Pratt  tells  me  as  your  constitution's  dillicate, 
as  anybody  may  see,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  wi'out  bein'  a 
doctor.  An'  this  is  the  light  I  look  at  it  in,  Mr.  Tryan: 
who's  to  fill  up  your  place,  if  you  was  to  be  disabled,  as  I  may 
say?  Consider  what  a  valyable  life  yours  is.  You've  begun 
a  great  work  i'  Milby,  and  so  you  might  carry  it  on,  if  you'd 
your  health  and  strength.  The  more  care  you  take  o'  your- 
self, the  longer  you'll  live,  belike,  God  willing,  to  do  good  to 
your  fellow -creaturs." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Jerome,  I  think  I  should  not  be  a  long- 
lived  man  in  any  case ;  and  if  I  were  to  take  care  of  myself 
under  the  pretext  of  doing  more  good,  I  should  very  likely  die 
and  leave  nothing  done  after  all." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  289 

"Well!  but  keepin'  a  hoss  wouldn't  hinder  you  from  work- 
in'.  It  'ud  help  you  to  do  more,  though  Pratt  says  as  it's 
usin'  your  voice  so  constant  as  does  you  the  most  harm. 
Xow,  isn't  it — I'mnoscholard,  Mr.  Tryan,  an'  I'm  not  a-goin' 
to  dictate  to  you — but  isn't  it  a' most  a-killin'  o'  yourself,  to 
go  on  a'  that  way  beyond  your  strength?  We  mustn't  fling 
our  lives  away." 

"  Xo,  not  fling  them  away  lightly,  but  we  are  permitted  to 
lay  down  our  lives  in  a  right  cause.  There  are  many  duties, 
as  you  know,  Mr.  Jerome,  which  stand  before  taking  care  of 
our  own  lives." 

"  Ah !  I  can't  arguy  wi'  you,  Mr.  Tryan ;  but  what  I  wanted 
to  say's  this — There's  my  little  chacenut  hoss;  I  should  take 
it  quite  a  kindness  if  you'd  hev  him  through  the  winter  an' 
ride  him.  I've  thought  o'  sellin'  him  a  many  times,  for  Mrs. 
Jerome  can't  abide  him;  and  what  do  I  want  wi'  two  nags? 
But  I'm  fond  o'  the  little  chacenut,  an'  I  shouldn't  like  to  sell 
him.  So  if  you'll  only  ride  him  for  me,  you'll  do  me  a  kind- 
ness— you  will,  indeed,  Mr.  Tryan." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome.  I  promise  you  to  ask  for  him, 
when  I  feel  that  I  want  a  nag.  There  is  no  man  I  would  more 
gladly  be  indebted  to  than  you ;  but  at  present  I  would  rather 
not  have  a  horse.  I  should  ride  him  very  little,  and  it  would 
be  an  inconvenience  to  me  to  keep  him  rather  than  otherwise." 

Mr.  Jerome  looked  troubled  and  hesitating,  as  if  he  had 
something  on  his  mind  that  would  not  readily  shape  itself  into 
words.  At  last  he  said,  "You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Tryan,  I 
wouldn't  be  takin'  a  liberty,  but  I  know  what  great  claims  you 
hev  on  you  as  a  clergyman.  Is  it  the  expense,  Mr.  Tryan? 
is  it  the  money  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  much  more  than  a  single  man 
needs.  My  way  of  living  is  quite  of  my  own  choosing,  and  I 
am  doing  nothing  but  what  I  feel  bound  to  do,  quite  apart 
from  money  considerations.  We  cannot  judge  for  one  another, 
you  know ;  we  have  each  our  peculiar  weaknesses  and  tempta- 
tions. I  quite  admit  that  it  might  be  right  for  another  man 
to  allow  himself  more  luxuries,  and  I  assure  you  I  think  it  no 
superiority  in  myself  to  do  without  them.  On  the  contrary, 
if  my  heart  were  less  rebellious,  and  if  I  were  less  liable  to 


290  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

temptation,  I  should  not  need  that  sort  of  self-denial.  But," 
added  Mr.  Tryan,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Jerome,  "I 
understand  your  kindness,  and  bless  you  for  it.  If  I  want  a 
horse,  I  shall  ask  for  the  chestnut." 

Mr.  Jerome  was  obliged  to  rest  contented  with  this  promise, 
and  rode  home  sorrowfully,  reproaching  himself  with  not  hav- 
ing said  one  thing  he  meant  to  say  when  setting  out,  and  with 
having  "  clean  forgot "  the  arguments  he  had  intended  to  quote 
from  Mr.  Stickney. 

Mr.  Jerome's  was  not  the  only  mind  that  was  seriously  dis- 
turbed by  the  idea  that  the  curate  was  overworking  himself. 
There  were  tender  women's  hearts  in  which  anxiety  about  the 
state  of  his  affections  was  beginning  to  be  merged  in  anxiety 
about  the  state  of  his  health.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt  had  at  one 
time  passed  through  much  sleepless  cogitation  on  the  possibil- 
ity of  Mr.  Tryan' s  being  attached  to  some  lady  at  a  distance — 
at  Laxeter,  perhaps,  where  he  had  formerly  held  a  curacy ; 
and  her  fine  eyes  kept  close  watch  lest  any  symptom  of  en- 
gaged affections  on  his  part  should  escape  her.  It  seemed  an 
alarming  fact  that  his  handkerchiefs  were  beautifully  marked 
with  hair,  until  she  reflected  that  he  had  an  unmarried  sister 
of  whom  he  spoke  with  much  affection  as  his  father' s  compan- 
ion and  comforter.  Besides,  Mr.  Tryan  had  never  paid  any 
distant  visit,  except  one  for  a  few  days  to  his  father,  and  no 
hint  escaped  him  of  his  intending  to  take  a  house,  or  change 
his  mode  of  living !  No !  he  could  not  be  engaged,  though  he 
might  have  been  disappointed.  But  this  latter  misfortune  is 
one  from  which  a  devoted  clergyman  has-  been  known  to  re- 
cover, by  the  aid  of  a  fine  pair  of  gray  eyes  that  beam  on  him 
with  affectionate  reverence.  Before  Christmas,  however,  her 
cogitations  began  to  take  another  turn.  She  heard  her  father 
say  very  confidently  that  "  Tryan  was  consumptive,  and  if  he 
didn't  take  more  care  of  himself,  his  life  would  not  be  worth 
a  year's  purchase  " ;  and  shame  at  having  speculated  on  sup- 
positions that  were  likely  to  prove  so  false,  sent  poor  Miss 
Eliza's  feelings  with  all  the  stronger  impetus  into  the  one 
channel  of  sorrowful  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  losing  the  pastor 
who  had  opened  to  her  a  new  life  of  piety  and  self-subjection. 
It  is  a  sad  weakness  in  us,  after  all,  that  the  thought  of  a  man's 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  291 

death  hallows  him  anew  to  us ;  as  if  life  were  not  sacred  too — 
as  if  it  were  comparatively  a  light  thing  to  fail  in  love  and 
reverence  to  the  brother  who  has  to  climb  the  whole  toilsome 
steep  with  us,  and  all  our  tears  and  tenderness  were  due  to  the 
one  who  is  spared  that  hard  journey. 

The  Miss  Linnets,  too,  were  beginning  to  take  a  new  view 
of  the  future,  entirely  uncolored  by  jealousy  of  Miss  Eliza 
Pratt. 

"  Did  you  notice,"  said  Mary,  one  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer  was  taking  tea  with  them — "  did  you  notice  that  short 
dry  cough  of  Mr.  Try  an' s  yesterday?  I  think  he  looks  worse 
and  worse  every  week,  and  I  only  wish  I  knew  his  sister;  I 
would  write  to  her  about  him.  I'm  sure  something  should  be 
done  to  make  him  give  up  part  of  his  work,  and  he  will  listen 
to  no  one  here." 

••  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "it's  a  thousand  pities  his  father 
and  sister  can't  come  and  live  with  him,  if  he  isn't  to  marry. 
But  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  he  could  have  taken  to  some  nice 
woman  as  would  have  made  a  comfortable  home  for  him.  I 
used  to  think  he  might  take  to  Eliza  Pratt;  she's  a  good  girl, 
and  very  pretty;  but  I  see  no  likelihood  of  it  now." 

"  No,  indeed, "  said  Eebecca,  with  some  emphasis ;  "  Mr. 
Try  an' s  heart  is  not  for  any  woman  to  win;  it  is  all  given  to 
his  work ;  and  I  could  never  wish  to  see  him  with  a  young 
inexperienced  wife  who  would  be  a  drag  on  him  instead  of  a 
helpmate. " 

"He'd  need  have  somebody,  young  or  old,"  observed  Mrs. 
Linnet,  "  to  see  as  he  wears  a  flannel  wescoat,  an'  changes  his 
stockins  when  he  comes  in.  It's  my  opinion  he's  got  that 
cough  wi'  sittin'  i'  wet  shoes  and  stockins;  an'  that  Mrs. 
Wagstaff's  a  poor  addle-headed  thing;  she  doesn't  half  tek 
care  on  him." 

"  Oh,  mother !  "  said  Rebecca,  "  she's  a  very  pious  woman. 
And  I'm  sure  she  thinks  it  too  great  a  privilege  to  have  Mr. 
Tryan  with  her,  not  to  do  the  best  she  can  to  make  him  com- 
fortable. She  can't  help  her  rooms  being  shabby." 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  again'  her  piety,  my  dear;  but  I  know 
very  well  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  cook  my  victual.  When  a 
man  comes  in  hungry  an'  tired,  piety  won't  feed  him,  I  reck- 


292  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

on.  Hard  carrots  'nil  lie  heavy  on  his  stomach,  piety  or  no 
piety.  I  called  in  one  day  when  she  was  dishin'  up  Mr.  Try- 
an's  dinner,  an'  I  could  see  the  potatoes  was  as  watery  as 
watery.  It's  right  enough  to  be  speritial — I'm  no  enemy  to 
that;  but  I  like  my  potatoes  mealy.  I  don't  see  as  anybody 
'ull  go  to  heaven  the  sooner  for  not  digestin'  their  dinner — 
providin'  they  don't  die  sooner,  as  mayhap  Mr.  Tryan  will, 
poor  dear  man !  " 

"  It  will  be  a  heavy  day  for  us  all  when  that  comes  to  pass," 
said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  We  shall  never  get  anybody  to  fill  up 
that  gap.  There's  the  new  clergyman  that's  just  come  to 
Shepperton — Mr.  Parry;  I  saw  him  the  other  day  at  Mrs. 
Bond's.  He  may  be  a  very  good  man,  and  a  fine  preacher ; 
they  say  he  is;  but  I  thought  to  myself,  What  a  difference 
between  him  and  Mr.  Tryan!  He's  a  sharp-sort-of -looking 
man,  and  hasn't  that  feeling  way  with  him  that  Mr.  Tryan 
has.  What  is  so  wonderful  to  me  in  Mr.  Tryan  is  the  way  he 
puts  himself  on  a  level  with  one,  and  talks  to  one  like  a  broth- 
er. I'm  never  afraid  of  telling  him  anything.  He  never 
seems  to  look  down  on  anybody.  He  knows  how  to  lift  up 
those  that  are  cast  down,  if  ever  man  did." 

"  Yes, "  said  Mary.  "  And  when  I  see  all  the  faces  turned 
up  to  him  in  Paddiford  Church,  I  often  think  how  hard  it 
would  be  for  any  clergyman  who  had  to  come  after  him ;  he 
has  made  the  people  love  him  so." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

IN  her  occasional  visits  to  her  near  neighbor  Mrs.  Pettifer, 
too  old  a  friend  to  be  shunned  because  she  was  a  Tryanite, 
Janet  was  obliged  sometimes  to  hear  allusions  to  Mr.  Tryan, 
and  even  to  listen  to  his  praises,  which  she  usually  met  with 
playful  incredulity. 

"Ah,  well,"  she  answered  one  day,  "I  like  dear  old  Mr. 
Crewe  and  his  pipes  a  great  deal  better  than  your  Mr.  Tryan 
and  his  Gospel.  When  I  was  a  little  toddle,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Crewe  used  to  let  me  play  about  in  their  garden,  and  have  a 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  293 

swing  between  the  great  elni-trees,  because  mother  had  no 
garden.  I  like  people  who  are  kind ;  kindness  is  my  religion ; 
and  that's  the  reason  I  like  you,  dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  though 
you  are  a  Tryanite." 

"But  that's  Mr.  Tryan's  religion  too — at  least  partly. 
There's  nobody  can  give  himself  up  more  to  doing  good 
amongst  the  poor ;  and  he  thinks  of  their  bodies  too,  as  well 
as  their  souls." 

"  Oh  yes,  yes ;  but  then  he  talks  about  faith,  and  grace, 
and  all  that,  making  people  believe  they  are  better  than  others, 
and  that  God  loves  them  more  than  He  does  the  rest  of  the 
world.  I  know  he  has  put  a  great  deal  of  that  into  Sally  Mar- 
tin's head,  and  it  has  done  her  no  good  at  all.  She  was  as 
nice,  honest,  patient  a  girl  as  need  be  before;  and  now  she 
fancies  she  has  new  light  and  new  wisdom.  I  don't  like  those 
notions." 

"You  mistake  him,  indeed  you  do,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dempster; 
I  wish  you'd  go  and  hear  him  preach." 

"  Hear  him  preach !  Why,  you  wicked  woman,  you  would 
persuade  me  to  disobey  my  husband,  would  you?  Oh,  shock- 
ing! I  shall  run  away  from  you.  Good-by." 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation,  however,  Janet  went  to 
Sally  Martin's  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  pud- 
ding that  had  been  sent  in  for  herself  and  "  Mammy, "  struck 
her  as  just  the  sort  of  delicate  morsel  the  poor  consumptive 
girl  would  be  likely  to  fancy,  and  in  her  usual  impulsive  way 
she  had  started  up  from  the  dinner-table  at  once,  put  on  her 
bonnet,  and  set  off  with  a  covered  plateful  to  the  neighboring 
street.  When  she  entered  the  house  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen ;  but  in  the  little  side-room  where  Sally  lay,  Janet  heard 
a  voice.  It  was  one  she  had  not  heard  before,  but  she  imme- 
diately guessed  it  to  be  Mr.  Tryan's.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  set  down  her  plate  and  go  away,  but  Mrs.  Martin  might  not 
be  in,  and  then  there  would  be  no  one  to  give  Sally  that  deli- 
cious bit  of  pudding.  So  she  stood  still,  and  was  obliged  to 
hear  what  Mr.  Try  an  was  saying.  He  was  interrupted  by 
one  of  the  invalid's  violent  fits  of  coughing. 

"  It  is  very  hard  to  bear,  is  it  not?  '"  he  said  when  she  was 
still  again.  "  Yet  God  seems  to  support  you  under  it  wonder- 


294  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

fully.  Pray  for  me,  Sally,  that  I  might  have  strength  too 
when  the  hour  of  great  suffering  comes.  It  is  one  of  my  worst 
weaknesses  to  shrink  from  bodily  pain,  and  I  think  the  time  is 
perhaps  not  so  far  off  when  I  shall  have  to  bear  what  you  are 
bearing.  But  now  I  have  tired  you.  We  have  talked  enough. 
Good-by." 

Janet  was  surprised,  and  forgot  her  wish  not  to  encounter 
Mr.  Tryan ;  the  tone  and  the  words  were  so  unlike  what  she 
had  expected  to  hear.  There  was  none  of  the  self-satisfied 
unction  of  the  teacher,  quoting,  or  exhorting,  or  expounding, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  hearer,  but  a  simple  appeal  for  help,  a 
confession  of  weakness.  Mr.  Tryan  had  his  deeply  felt  trou- 
bles, then?  Mr.  Tryan,  too,  like  herself,  knew  what  it  was  to 
tremble  at  a  foreseen  trial — to  shudder  at  an  impending  bur- 
then, heavier  than  he  felt  able  to  bear? 

The  most  brilliant  deed  of  virtue  could  not  have  inclined 
Janet's  good- will  toward  Mr.  Tryan  so  much  as  this  fellowship 
in  suffering,  and  the  softening  thought  was  in  her  eyes  when 
he  appeared  in  the  doorway,  pale,  weary,  and  depressed.  The 
sight  of  Janet  standing  there  with  the  entire  absence  of  self- 
consciousness  which  belongs  to  a  new  and  vivid  impression, 
made  him  start  and  pause  a  little.  Their  eyes  met,  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  gravely  for  a  few  moments.  Then  they 
bowed,  and  Mr.  Tryan  passed  out. 

There  is  a  power  in  the  direct  glance  of  a  sincere  and  loving 
human  soul,  which  will  do  more  to  dissipate  prejudice  and 
kindle  charity  than  the  most  elaborate  arguments.  The  fullest 
exposition  of  Mr.  Try  an' s  doctrine  might  not  have  sufficed  to 
convince  Janet  that  he  had  not  an  odious  self-complacency  in 
believing  himself  a  peculiar  child  of  God;  but  one  direct, 
pathetic  look  of  his  had  associated  him  with  that  conception 
forever. 

This  happened  late  in  the  autumn,  not  long  before  Sally 
Martin  died.  Janet  mentioned  her  new  impression  to  no  one, 
for  she  was  afraid  of  arriving  at  a  still  more  complete  contra- 
diction of  her  former  ideas.  We  have  all  of  us  considerable 
regard  for  our  past  self,  and  are  not  fond  of  casting  reflections 
on  that  respected  individual  by  a  total  negation  of  his  opinions. 
Janet  could  no  longer  think  of  Mr.  Tryan  without  sympathy, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  295 

but  she  still  shrank  from  the  idea  of  becoming  his  hearer  and 
admirer.  That  was  a  reversal  of  the  past  which  was  as  little 
accordant  with  her  inclination  as  her  circumstances. 

And  indeed  this  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  was  soon  thrust 
into  the  background  of  poor  Janet's  memory  by  the  daily 
thickening  miseries  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  loss  of  Mr.  Jerome  as  a  client  proved  only  the  begin- 
ning of  annoyances  to  Dempster.  That  old  gentleman  had  in 
him  the  vigorous  remnant  of  an  energy  and  perseverance  which 
had  created  his  own  fortune;  and  being,  as  I  have  hinted, 
given  to  chewing  the  cud  of  a  righteous  indignation  with  con- 
siderable relish,  he  was  determined  to  carry  on  his  retributive 
war  against  the  persecuting  attorney.  Having  some  influence 
with  Mr.  Pry  me,  who  was  one  of  the  most  substantial  rate- 
payers in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Dingley,  and  who  had  him- 
self a  complex  and  long-standing  private  account  with  Demp- 
ster, Mr.  Jerome  stirred  up  this  gentleman  to  an  investigation 
of  some  suspicious  points  in  the  attorney 'scon  duct  of  the  par- 
ish affairs.  The  natural  consequence  was  a  personal  quarrel 
between  Dempster  and  Mr.  Pryme ;  the  client  demanded  his 
account,  and  then  followed  the  old  story  of  an  exorbitant  law- 
yer's bill,  with  the  unpleasant  anti-climax  of  taxing. 

These  disagreeables,  extending  over  many  months,  ran  along 
side  by  side  with  the  pressing  business  of  Mr.  Armstrong's 
lawsuit,  which  was  threatening  to  take  a  turn  rather  deprecia- 
tory of  Dempster's  professional  prevision ;  and  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that,  being  thus  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  irritated 
excitement  about  his  own  affairs,  he  had  little  time  for  the 
further  exhibition  of  his  public  spirit,  or  for  rallying  the  for- 
lorn hope  of  sound  churchmanship  against  cant  and  hypocrisy. 
Not  a  few  persons  who  had  a  grudge  against  him,  began  to 
remark,  with  satisfaction,  that  "  Dempster's  luck  was  forsak- 
ing him  " ;  particularly  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  thought  she  saw  dis- 
tinctly the  gradual  ripening  of  a  providential  scheme,  whereby 


296  SCENES  OF  CLEKICAL  LIFE. 

a  just  retribution  v»-ould  be  wrought  on  the  man  who  had  de- 
prived her  of  Pye's  Croft.  On  the  other  hand,  Dempster's 
well-satisfied  clients,  who  were  of  opinion  that  the  punishment 
of  his  wickedness  might  conveniently  be  deferred  to  another 
world,  noticed  with  some  concern  that  he  was  drinking  more 
than  ever,  and  that  both  his  temper  and  his  driving  were  be- 
coming more  furious.  Unhappily  those  additional  glasses  of 
brandy,  that  exasperation  of  loud-tongued  abuse,  had  other 
effects  than  any  that  entered  into  the  contemplation  of  anxious 
clients :  they  were  the  little  superadded  symbols  that  were 
perpetually  raising  the  sum  of  home  misery. 

Poor  Janet !  how  heavily  the  months  rolled  on  for  her,  laden 
with  fresh  sorrows  as  the  summer  passed  into  autumn,  the 
autumn  into  winter,  and  the  winter  into  spring  again.  Every 
feverish  morning,  with  its  blank  listlessness  and  despair, 
seemed  more  hateful  than  the  last;  every  coming  night  more 
impossible  to  brave  without  arming  herself  in  leaden  stupor. 
The  morning  light  brought  no  gladness  to  her :  it  seemed  only 
to  throw  its  glare  on  what  had  happened  in  the  dim  candle- 
light— on  the  cruel  man  seated  immovable  in  drunken  obsti- 
nacy by  the  dead  fire  and  dying  lights  in  the  dining-room, 
rating  her  in  harsh  tones,  reiterating  old  reproaches — or  on  a 
hideous  blank  of  something  unremembered,  something  that 
must  have  made  that  dark  bruise  on  her  shoulder,  which  ached 
as  she  dressed  herself. 

Do  you  wonder  how  it  was  that  things  had  come  to  this 
pass — what  offence  Janet  had  committed  in  the  early  years  of 
marriage  to  rouse  the  brutal  hatred  of  this  man?  The  seeds 
of  things  are  very  small :  the  hours  that  lie  between  sunrise 
and  the  gloom  of  midnight  are  travelled  through  by  tiniest 
markings  of  the  clock :  and  Janet,  looking  back  along  the  fif- 
teen years  of  her  married  life,  hardly  knew  how  or  where  this 
total  misery  began ;  hardly  knew  when  the  sweet  wedded  love 
and  hope  that  had  set  forever  had  ceased  to  make  a  twilight 
of  memory  and  relenting,  before  the  on-coming  of  the  utter 
dark. 

Old  Mrs.  Dempster  thought  she  saw  the  true  beginning  of 
it  all  in  Janet's  want  of  housekeeping  skill  and  exactness. 
"Janet,"  she  said  to  herself,  "was  always  running  about  do- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE  297 

ing  things  for  other  people,  and  neglecting  her  own  house. 
That  provokes  a  man :  what  use  is  it  for  a  woman  to  be  lov- 
ing, and  making  a  fuss  with  her  husband,  if  she  doesn't  take 
care  and  keep  his  home  just  as  he  likes  it;  if  she  isn't  at  hand 
when  he  wants  anything  done ;  if  she  doesn't  attend  to  all  his 
wishes,  let  them  be  as  small  as  they  may?  That  was  what  I 
did  when  I  was  a  wife,  though  I  didn't  make  half  so  much 
fuss  about  loving  my  husband.  Then,  Janet  had  no  children." 
.  .  .  Ah !  there  Mammy  Dempster  had  touched  a  true  spring, 
not  perhaps  of  her  son's  cruelty,  but  of  half  Janet's  misery. 
If  she  had  had  babes  to  rock  to  sleep — little  ones  to  kneel  in 
their  night-dress  and  say  their  prayers  at  her  knees — sweet 
boys  and  girls  to  put  their  young  arms  round  her  neck  and 
kiss  away  her  tears,  her  poor  hungry  heart  would  have  been 
fed  with  strong  love,  and  might  never  have  needed  that  fiery 
poison  to  still  its  cravings.  Mighty  is  the  force  of  mother- 
hood !  says  the  great  tragic  poet  to  us  across  the  ages,  finding, 
as  usual,  the  simplest  words  for  the  subliniest  fact — Seudv  T<) 
r:z-££>  iVr:V.  It  transforms  all  things  by  its  vital  heat:  it 
turns  timidity  into  fierce  courage,  and  dreadless  defiance  into 
tremulous  submission ;  it  turns  thoughtlessness  into  foresight, 
and  yet  stills  all  anxiety  into  calm  content;  it  makes  selfish- 
ness become  self-denial,  and  gives  even  to  hard  vanity  the 
glance  of  admiring  love.  Yes ;  if  Janet  had  been  a  mother, 
she  might  have  been  saved  from  much  sin,  and  therefore  from 
much  of  her  sorrow. 

But  do  not  believe  that  it  was  anything  either  present  or 
wanting  in  poor  Janet  that  formed  the  motive  of  her  husband's 
cruelty.  Cruelty,  like  every  other  vice,  requires  no  motive 
outside  itself — it  only  requires  opportunity.  You  do  not  sup- 
pose Dempster  had  any  motive  for  drinking  beyond  the  crav- 
ing for  drink;  the  presence  of  brandy  was  the  only  necessary 
condition.  And  an  unloving,  tyrannous,  brutal  man  needs  no 
motive  to  prompt  his  cruelty;  he  needs  only  the  perpetual 
presence  of  a  woman  he  can  call  his  own.  A  whole  park  full 
of  tame  or  timid-eyed  animals  to  torment  at  his  will  would 
not  serve  him  so  well  to  glut  his  lust  of  torture ;  they  could 
not  feel  as  one  woman  does ;  they  could  not  throw  out  the  keen 
retort  which  whets  the  edge  of  hatred. 


298  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Janet's  bitterness  would  overflow  in  ready  words;  she  was 
not  to  be  made  meek  by  cruelty ;  she  would  repent  of  nothing 
in  the  face  of  injustice,  though  she  was  subdued  in  a  moment 
by  a  word  or  a  look  that  recalled  the  old  days  of  fondness ; 
and  in  times  of  comparative  calm  would  often  recover  her 
sweet  woman's  habit  of  caressing  playful  affection.  But  such 
days  were  become  rare,  and  poor  Janet's  soul  was  kept  like  a 
vexed  sea,  tossed  by  a  new  storm  before  the  old  waves  have 
fallen.  Proud,  angry  resistance  and  sullen  endurance  were 
now  almost  the  only  alternations  she  knew.  She  would  bear 
it  all  proudly  to  the  world,  but  proudly  toward  him  too ;  her 
woman's  weakness  might  shriek  a  cry  for  pity  under  a  heavy 
blow,  but  voluntarily  she  would  do  nothing  to  mollify  him, 
unless  he  first  relented.  What  had  she  ever  done  to  him  but 
love  him  too  well— but  believe  in  him  too  foolishly?  He  had 
no  pity  on  her  tender  flesh;  he  could  strike  the  soft  neck  ho 
had  once  asked  to  kiss.  Yet  she  would  not  admit  her  wretch- 
edness ;  she  had  married  him  blindly,  and  she  would  bear  it 
out  to  the  terrible  end,  whatever  that  might  be.  Better  this 
misery  than  the  blank  that  lay  for  her  outside  her  married 
home. 

But  there  was  one  person  who  heard  all  the  plaints  and  all 
the  outbursts  of  bitterness  and  despair  which  Janet  was  never 
tempted  to  pour  into  any  other  ear;  and  alas!  in  her  worst 
moments,  Janet  would  throw  out  wild  reproaches  against  that 
patient  listener.  For  the  wrong  that  rouses  our  angry  pas- 
sions finds  only  a  medium  in  us;  it  passes  through  us  like  a 
vibration,  and  we  inflict  what  we  have  suffered. 

Mrs.  Raynor  saw  too  clearly  all  through  the  winter  that 
things  were  getting  worse  in  Orchard  Street.  She  had  evi- 
dence enough  of  it  in  Janet's  visits  to  her;  and,  though  her 
own  visits  to  her  daughter  were  so  timed  that  she  saw  little  of 
Dempster  personally,  she  noticed  many  indications  not  only 
that  he  was  drinking  to  greater  excess,  but  that  he  was  begin- 
ning to  lose  that  physical  power  of  supporting  excess  which 
had  long  been  the  admiration  of  such  fine  spirits  as  Mr.  Tom- 
linson.  It  seemed  as  if  Dempster  had  some  consciousness  of 
this — some  new  distrust  of  himself;  for,  before  winter  was 
over,  it  was  observed  that  he  had  renounced  his  habit  of  driv- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  299 

ing  out  alone,  and  was  never  seen  in  his  gig  without  a  servant 
by  his  side. 

Nemesis  is  lame,  but  she  is  of  colossal  stature,  like  the 
gods ;  and  sometimes,  while  her  sword  is  not  yet  unsheathed, 
she  stretches  out  her  huge  left  arm  and  grasps  her  victim. 
The  mighty  hand  is  invisible,  but  the  victim  totters  under  the 
dire  clutch. 

The  various  symptoms  that  things  were  getting  worse  with 
the  Dempsters  afforded  Milby  gossip  something  new  to  say  on 
an  old  subject.  Mrs.  Dempster,  every  one  remarked,  looked 
more  miserable  than  ever,  though  she  kept  up  the  old  pretence 
of  being  happy  and  satisfied.  She  was  scarcely  ever  seen,  as 
she  used  to  be,  going  about  on  her  good-natured  errands ;  and 
even  old  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  had  always  been  wilfully  blind  to 
anything  wrong  in  her  favorite  Janet,  was  obliged  to  admit 
that  she  had  not  seemed  like  herself  lately.  "  The  poor  thing's 
out  of  health, "  said  the  kind  little  old  lady,  in  answer  to  all 
gossip  about  Janet;  " her  headaches  always  were  bad,  and  I 
know  what  headaches  are ;  why,  they  make  one  quite  delirious 
sometimes."  Mrs.  Phipps,  for  her  part,  declared  she  would 
never  accept  an  invitation  to  Dempster's  again;  it  was  getting 
so  very  disagreeable  to  go  there,  Mrs.  Dempster  was  often  "  so 
strange."  To  be  sure,  there  were  dreadful  stories  about  the 
way  Dempster  used  his  wife;  but  in  Mrs.  Phipps' s  opinion, 
it  was  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other.  Mrs.  Demp- 
ster had  never  been  like  other  women ;  she  had  always  a  flighty 
way  with  her,  carrying  parcels  of  snuff  to  old  Mrs.  Tooke,  and 
going  to  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Brinley,  the  carpenter's  wife; 
and  then  never  taking  care  of  her  clothes,  always  wearing  the 
same  things  week-day  or  Sunday.  A  man  has  a  poor  lookout 
with  a  wife  of  that  sort.  Mr.  Phipps,  amiabje  and  laconic, 
wondered  how  it  was  women  were  so  fond  of  running  each 
other  down. 

.M  r.  Pratt  having  been  called  in  provisionally  to  a  patient  of 
Mr.  Pilgrim's  in  a  case  of  compound  fracture,  observed  in  a 
friendly  colloquy  with  his  brother  surgeon  the  next  day — 

"  So  Dempster  has  left  off  driving  himself,  I  see;  he  won't 
end  with  a  broken  neck  after  all.  You'll  have  a  case  of  men- 
ingitis and  delirium  tremeus  instead." 


300  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  "he  can  hardly  stand  it  much 
longer  at  the  rate  he's  going  on,  one  would  think.  He's  been 
confoundedly  cut  up  about  that  business  of  Armstrong's,  I 
fancy.  It  may  do  him  some  harm,  perhaps,  but  Dempster 
must  have  feathered  his  nest  pretty  well ;  he  can  afford  to  lose 
a  little  business." 

"His  business  will  outlast  him,  that's  pretty  clear,"  said 
Pratt;  "he'll  run  down  like  a  watch  with  a  broken  spring 
one  of  these  days." 

Another  prognostic  of  evil  to  Dempster  came  at  the  begin- 
ning of  March.  For  then  little  "  Mamsey  "  died — died  sud- 
denly. The  housemaid  found  her  seated  motionless  in  her 
arm-chair,  her  knitting  fallen  down,  and  the  tortoise-shell  cat 
reposing  on  it  unreproved.  The  little  white  old  woman  had 
ended  her  wintry  age  of  patient  sorrow,  believing  to  the  last 
that  "  Kobert  might  have  been  a  good  husband  as  he  had  been 
a  good  son." 

When  the  earth  was  thrown  on  Mamsey's  coffin,  and  the 
son,  in  crape  scarf  and  hatband,  turned  away  homeward,  his 
good  angel,  lingering  with  outstretched  wing  on  the  edge  of  the 
grave,  cast  one  despairing  look  after  him,  and  took  flight  for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  last  week  in  March — three  weeks  after  old  Mrs.  Demp- 
ster died — occurred  the  unpleasant  winding-up  of  affairs  be- 
tween Dempster  and  Mr.  Pryme,  and  under  this  additional 
source  of  irritation  the  attorney's  diurnal  drunkenness  had 
taken  on  its  most  ill-tempered  and  brutal  phase.  On  the  Fri- 
day morning,  before  setting  out  for  Eotherby,  he  told  his  wife 
that  he  had  invited  "  four  men  "  to  dinner  at  half-past  six  that 
evening.  The  previous  night  had  been  a  terrible  one  for  Janet, 
and  when  her  husband  broke  his  grim  morning  silence  to  say 
these  few  words,  she  was  looking  so  blank  and  listless  that  he 
added  in  a  loud  sharp  key,  "  Do  you  hear  what  I  say?  or  must 
I  tell  the  cook?  "  She  started,  and  said,  "  Yes,  I  hear." 

"  Then  mind  and  have  a  dinner  provided,  and  don't  go 
mooning  about  like  crazy  Jane. " 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  301 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Mrs.  Kaynor,  quietly  busy  in  her 
kitchen  with  her  household  labors — for  she  had  only  a  little 
twelve-year-old  girl  as  a  servant — heard  with  trembling  the 
rattling  of  the  garden  gate  and  the  opening  of  the  outer  door. 
She  knew  the  step,  and  in  one  short  moment  she  lived  before- 
hand through  the  coming  scene.  She  hurried  out  of  the  kitch- 
en, and  there  in  the  passage,  as  she  had  felt,  stood  Janet,  her 
eyes  worn  as  if  by  night-long  watching,  her  dress  careless,  her 
step  languid.  No  cheerful  morning  greeting  to  her  mother — 
no  kiss.  She  turned  into  the  parlor,  and,  seating  herself  on 
the  sofa  opposite  her  mother's  chair,  looked  vacantly  at  the 
walls  and  furniture  until  the  corners  of  her  mouth  began  to 
tremble,  and  her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  fell  uuwiped 
down  her  cheeks.  The  mother  sat  silently  opposite  to  her, 
afraid  to  speak.  She  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  new  the  mat- 
ter— sure  that  the  torrent  of  words  would  come  sooner  or  later. 

"Mother!  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?"  Janet  burst  out 
at  last;  "you  don't  care  about  my  suffering;  you  are  blaming 
me  because  I  feel — because  I  am  miserable." 

"  My  child,  I  am  not  blaming  you — my  heart  is  bleeding  for 
you.  Your  head  is  bad  this  morning — you  have  had  a  bad 
night.  Let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  now.  Perhaps  you 
didn't  like  your  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  you  always  think,  mother.  It  is  the 
old  story,  you  think.  You  don't  ask  me  what  it  is  I  have  had 
to  bear.  You  are  tired  of  hearing  me.  You  are  cruel,  like 
the  rest;  every  one  is  cruel  in  this  world.  Nothing  but  blame 
—blame — blame ;  never  any  pity.  God  is  cruel  to  have  sent 
me  into  the  world  to  bear  all  this  misery." 

"Janet,  Janet,  don't  say  so.  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge;  we 
must  submit ;  we  must  be  thankful  for  the  gift  of  life. " 

"  Thankful  for  life !  Why  should  I  be  thankful?  God  has 
made  me  with  a  heart  to  feel,  and  He  has  sent  me  nothing  but 
misery.  How  could  I  help  it?  How  could  I  know  what 
would  come?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  mother? — why  did 
you  let  me  marry?  You  knew  what  brutes  men  could  be ;  and 
there's  no  help  for  me — no  hope.  I  can't  kill  myself;  I've 
tried;  but  I  can't  leave  this  world  and  go  to  another.  There 
may  be  no  pity  for  me  there,  as  there  is  none  here." 


302  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Janet,  my  child,  there  is  pity.  Have  I  ever  done  any- 
thing but  love  you?  And  there  is  pity  in  God.  Hasn't  He 
put  pity  into  your  heart  for  many  a  poor  sufferer?  Where  did 
it  come  from,  if  not  from  Him?  " 

Janet' s  nervous  irritation  now  broke  out  into  sobs  instead  of 
complainings;  and  her  mother  was  thankful,  for  after  that 
crisis  there  would  very  likely  come  relenting,  and  tenderness, 
and  comparative  calm.  She  went  out  to  make  some  tea,  and 
when  she  returned  with  the  tray  in  her  hands,  Janet  had 
dried  her  eyes  and  now  turned  them  toward  her  mother  with  a 
faint  attempt  to  smile ;  but  the  poor  face,  in  its  sad  blurred 
beauty,  looked  all  the  more  piteous. 

"  Mother  will  insist  upon  her  tea,"  she  said,  "  and  I  really 
think  I  can  drink  a  cup.  But  I  must  go  home  directly,  for 
there  are  people  coming  to  dinner.  Could  you  go  with  me 
and  help  me,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Raynor  was  always  ready  to  do  that.  She  went  to 
Orchard  Street  with  Janet,  and  remained  with  her  through  the 
day — comforted,  as  evening  approached,  to  see  her  become 
more  cheerful  and  willing  to  attend  to  her  toilet.  At  half- 
past  five  everything  was  in  order;  Janet  was  dressed;  and 
when  her  mother  had  kissed  her  and  said  good-by,  she  could 
not  help  pausing  a  moment  in  sorrowful  admiration  at  the  tall 
rich  figure,  looking  all  the  grander  for  the  plainness  of  the 
deep  mourning  dress,  and  the  noble  face  with  its  massy  folds 
of  black  hair,  made  matronly  by  a  simple  white  cap.  Janet 
had  that  enduring  beauty  which  belongs  to  pure  majestic  out- 
line and  depth  of  tint.  Sorrow  and  neglect  leave  their  traces 
on  such  beauty,  but  it  thrills  us  to  the  last,  like  a  glorious 
Greek  temple,  which,  for  all  the  loss  it  has  suffered  from  time 
and  barbarous  hands,  has  gained  a  solemn  history,  and  fills 
our  imagination  the  more  because  it  is  incomplete  to  the  sense. 

It  was  six  o'clock  before  Dempster  returned  from  Rotherby. 
He  had  evidently  drunk  a  great  deal,  and  was  in  an  angry 
humor ;  but  Janet,  who  had  gathered  some  little  courage  and 
forbearance  from  the  consciousness  that  she  had  done  her  best 
to-day,  was  determined  to  speak  pleasantly  to  him. 

"Robert,"  she  said  gently,  as  she  saw  him  seat  himself  in 
the  dining-room  in  his  dusty  snuffy  clothes,  and  take  some 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  303 

documents  out  of  his  pocket,  "  will  you  not  wash  and  change 
your  dress?  It  will  refresh  you." 

"  Leave  me  alone,  will  you?"  said  Dempster,  in  his  most 
brutal  tone. 

"  Do  change  your  coat  and  waistcoat,  they  are  so  dusty. 
I've  laid  all  your  things  out  ready." 

"  Oh,  you  have,  have  you?  "  After  a  few  minutes  he  rose 
very  deliberately  and  walked  upstairs  into  his  bedroom.  Ja- 
net had  often  been  scolded  before  for  not  laying  out  his  clothes, 
and  she  thought  now,  not  without  some  wonder,  that  this  at- 
tention of  hers  had  brought  him  to  compliance. 

Presently  he  called  out,  "  Janet !  "  and  she  went  upstairs. 

"  Here !  take  that !  "  he  said,  as  soon  as  she  reached  the 
door,  flinging  at  her  the  coat  she  had  laid  out.  "Another 
time,  leave  me  to  do  as  I  please,  will  you?  " 

The  coat,  flung  with  great  force,  only  brushed  her  shoulder, 
and  fell  some  distance  within  the  drawing-room,  the  door  of 
which  stood  open  just  opposite.  She  hastily  retreated  as  she 
saw  the  waistcoat  coining,  and  one  by  one  the  clothes  she  had 
laid  out  were  all  flung  into  the  drawing-room. 

Janet's  face  flushed  with  anger,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  her  resentment  overcame  the  long-cherished  pride  that 
made  her  hide  her  griefs  from  the  world.  There  are  moments 
when  by  some  strange  impulse  we  contradict  our  past  selves 
— fatal  moments,  when  a  fit  of  passion,  like  a  lava  stream,  lays 
low  the  work  of  half  our  lives.  Janet  thought,  "  I  will  not 
pick  up  the  clothes;  they  shall  lie  there  until  the  visitors 
come,  and  he  shall  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  made  haste  to  seat 
herself  in  the  drawing-room,  lest  the  servant  should  enter  and 
remove  the  clothes,  which  were  lying  half  on  the  table  and 
half  on  the  ground.  Mr.  Lowme  entered  with  a  less  familiar 
visitor,  a  client  of  Dempster's,  and  the  next  moment  Demp- 
ster himself  came  in. 

His  eyes  fell  at  once  on  the  clothes,  and  then  turned  for 
an  instant  with  a  devilish  glance  of  concentrated  hatred  on  Ja- 
net, who,  still  flushed  and  excited,  affected  unconsciousness. 
After  shaking  hands  with  his  visitors  he  immediately  rang  the 
bell. 


304  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Take  those  clothes  away,"  he  said  to  the  servant,  not 
looking  at  Janet  again. 

During  dinner,  she  kept  up  her  assumed  air  of  indifference, 
and  tried  to  seem  in  high  spirits,  laughing  and  talking  more 
than  usual.  In  reality,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  defied  a  wild 
beast  within  the  four  walls  of  his  den,  and  he  was  crouching 
backward  in  preparation  for  his  deadly  spring.  Dempster 
affected  to  take  no  notice  of  her,  talked  obstreperously,  and 
drank  steadily. 

About  eleven  the  party  dispersed,  with  the  exception  of  Mr. 
Budd,  who  had  joined  them  after  dinner,  and  appeared  dis- 
posed to  stay  drinking  a  little  longer.  Janet  began  to  hope 
that  he  would  stay  long  enough  for  Dempster  to  become  heavy 
and  stupid,  and  so  to  fall  asleep  downstairs,  which  was  a  rare 
but  occasional  ending  of  his  nights.  She  told  the  servants  to 
sit  up  no  longer,  and  she  herself  undressed  and  went  to  bed, 
trying  to  cheat  her  imagination  into  the  belief  that  the  day 
was  ended  for  her.  But  when  she  lay  down,  she  became  more 
intensely  awake  than  ever.  Everything  she  had  taken  this 
evening  seemed  only  to  stimulate  her  senses  and  her  apprehen- 
sions to  new  vividness.  Her  heart  beat  violently,  and  she 
heard  every  sound  in  the  house. 

At  last,  when  it  was  twelve,  she  heard  Mr.  Budd  go  out; 
she  heard  the  door  slam.  Dempster  had  not  moved.  Was  he 
asleep?  Would  he  forget?  The  minute  seemed  long,  while, 
with  a  quickening  pulse,  she  was  on  the  stretch  to  catch  every 
sound. 

"  Janet!  "  The  loud  jarring  voice  seemed  to  strike  her  like 
a  hurled  weapon. 

"Janet!"  he  called  again,  moving  out  of  the  dining-room 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  minute. 

"If  you  don't  come,  I'll  kill  you." 

Another  pause,  and  she  heard  him  turn  back  into  the 
dining-room.  He  was  gone  for  a  light — perhaps  for  a 
weapon.  Perhaps  he  would  kill  her.  Let  him.  Life  was 
as  hideous  as  death.  For  years  she  had  been  rushing  on 
to  some  unknown  but  certain  horror;  and  now  she  was 
close  upon  it.  She  was  almost  glad.  She  was  in  a  state 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  305 

of  flushed  feverish  defiance  that  neutralized  her  woman's 
terrors. 

She  heard  his  heavy  step  on  the  stairs ;  she  saw  the  slowly 
advancing  light.  Then  she  saw  the  tall  massive  figure,  and 
the  heavy  face,  now  fierce  with  drunken  rage.  He  had  noth- 
ing but  the  candle  in  his  hand.  He  set  it  down  on  the  table, 
and  advanced  close  to  the  bed. 

"So  you  think  you'll  defy  me,  do  you?  "We'll  see  how 
long  that  will  last.  Get  up,  madam ;  out  of  bed  this  instant !  " 

In  the  close  presence  of  the  dreadful  man — of  this  huge 
crushing  force,  armed  with  savage  will — poor  Janet's  desper- 
ate defiance  all  forsook  her,  and  her  terrors  came  back.  Trem- 
bling she  got  up,  and  stood  helpless  in  her  night-dress  before 
her  husband. 

He  seized  her  with  his  heavy  grasp  by  the  shoulder,  and 
pushed  her  before  him. 

"  I'll  cool  your  hot  spirit  for  you!  I'll  teach  you  to  brave 
me!" 

Slowly  he  pushed  her  along  before  him,  downstairs  and 
through  the  passage,  where  a  small  oil-lamp  was  still  flicker- 
ing. What  was  he  going  to  do  to  her?  She  thought  every 
moment  he  was  going  to  dash  her  before  him  on  the  ground. 
But  she  gave  no  scream — she  only  trembled. 

He  pushed  her  on  to  the  entrance,  and  held  her  firmly  in 
his  grasp  while  he  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door.  Then  he 
opened  the  door  a  little  way,  thrust  her  out,  and  slammed  it 
behind  her. 

For  a  short  space,  it  seemed  like  a  deliverance  to  Janet. 
The  harsh  northeast  wind,  that  blew  through  her  thin  night- 
dress, and  sent  her  long  heavy  black  hair  streaming,  seemed 
like  the  breath  of  pity  after  the  grasp  of  that  threatening  mon- 
ster. But  soon  the  sense  of  release  from  an  overpowering 
terror  gave  way  before  the  sense  of  the  fate  that  had  really 
come  upon  her. 

This,  then,  was  what  she  had  been  travelling  toward 
through  her  long  years  of  misery !  Not  yet  death.  Oh !  if 
she  had  been  brave  enough  for  it,  death  would  have  been  bet- 
ter. The  servants  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house;  it  was  im- 
possible to  make  them  hear,  so  that  they  might  let  her  in 


306  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

again  quietly,  without  her  husband's  knowledge.  And  she 
would  not  have  tried.  He  had  thrust  her  out,  and  it  should 
be  forever. 

There  would  have  been  dead  silence  in  Orchard  Street  but 
for  the  whistling  of  the  wind  and  the  swirling  of  the  March 
dust  on  the  pavement.  Thick  clouds  covered  the  sky ;  every 
door  was  closed;  every  window  was  dark.  No  ray  of  light 
fell  on  the  tall  white  figure  that  stood  in  lonely  misery  on  the 
doorstep ;  no  eye  rested  on  Janet  as  she  sank  down  on  the  cold 
stone,  and  looked  into  the  dismal  night.  She  seemed  to  be 
looking  into  her  own  blank  future. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  stony  street,  the  bitter  northeast  wind  and  darkness — 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  a  tender  woman  thrust  out  from  her 
husband's  home  in  her  thin  night-dress,  the  harsh  wind  cut- 
ting her  naked  feet,  and  driving  her  long  hair  away  from  her 
half -clad  bosom,  where  the  poor  heart  is  crushed  with  anguish 
and  despair. 

The  drowning  man,  urged  by  the  supreme  agony,  lives  in 
an  instant  through  all  his  happy  and  unhappy  past :  when  the 
dark  flood  has  fallen  like  a  curtain,  memory,  in  a  single  mo- 
ment, sees  the  drama  acted  over  again.  And  even  in  those 
earlier  crises,  which  are  but  types  of  death — when  we  are  cut 
off  abruptly  from  the  life  we  have  known,  when  we  can  no 
longer  expect  to-morrow  to  resemble  yesterday,  and  find  our- 
selves by  some  sudden  shock  on  the  confines  of  the  unknown — 
there  is  often  the  same  sort  of  lightning-flash  through  the  dark 
and  unfrequented  chambers  of  memory. 

When  Janet  sat  down  shivering  on  the  door-stone,  with  the 
door  shut  upon  her  past  life,  and  the  future  black  and  unshapeu 
before  her  as  the  night,  the  scenes  of  her  childhood,  her  youth, 
and  her  painful  womanhood,  rushed  back  upon  her  conscious- 
ness, and  made  one  picture  with  her  present  desolation.  The 
petted  child  taking  her  newest  toy  to  bed  with  her — the  young 
girl,  proud  in  strength  and  beauty,  dreaming  that  life  was  an 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  307 

easy  thing,  and  that  it  was  pitiful  weakness  to  be  unhappy — 
the  bride,  passing  with  trembling  joy  from  the  outer  court  to 
the  inner  sanctuary  of  woman's  life — the  wife,  beginning  her 
initiation  into  sorrow,  wounded,  resenting,  yet  still  hoping  and 
forgiving — the  poor  bruised  woman,  seeking  through  weary 
years  the  one  refuge  of  despair,  oblivion : — Janet  seemed  to 
herself  all  these  in  the  same  moment  that  she  was  conscious  of 
being  seated  011  the  cold  stone  under  the  shock  of  a  new  mis- 
ery.    All  her  early  gladness,  all  her  bright  hopes  and  illusions, 
all  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  affection,  served  only  to  darken  the 
riddle  of  her  life ;  they  were  the  betraying  promises  of  a  cruel 
destiny  which  had  brought  out  those  sweet  blossoms  only  that 
the  winds  and  storms  might  have  a  greater  work  of  desolation, 
which  had  nursed  her  like  a  pet  fawn  into  tenderness  and  fond 
expectation,  only  that  she  might  feel  a  keener  terror  in  the 
clutch  of  the  panther.     Her  mother  had  sometimes  said  that 
troubles  were  sent  to  make  us  better  and  draw  us  nearer  to 
God.     What  mockery  that  seemed  to  Janet!      Her  troubles 
had  been  sinking  her  lower  from  year  to  year,  pressing  upon 
her  like  heavy  fever-laden  vapors,  and  perverting  the  very 
plenitude  of  her  nature  into  a  deeper  source  of  disease.     Her 
wretchedness  had  been  a  perpetually  tightening  instrument  of 
torture,  which  had  gradually  absorbed  all  the  other  sensibili- 
ties of  her  nature  into  the  sense  of  pain  and  the  maddened 
craving  for  relief.     Oh,  if  some  ray  of  hope,  of  pity,  of  con- 
solation, would  pierce  through  the  horrible  gloom,  she  might 
believe  f/ien  in  a  Divine  love — in  a  heavenly  Father  who  cared 
for  His  children!     But   now  she    had    no  faith,   no   trust. 
There  was  nothing  she  could  lean  on  in  the  wide  world,  for  her 
mother  was  only  a  fellow-sufferer  in  her  own  lot.     The  poor 
patient  woman  could  do  little  more   than   mourn  with  her 
daughter :  she  had  humble  resignation  enough  to  sustain  her 
own  soul,  but  she  could  no  more  give  comfort  and  fortitude  to 
Janet,  than  the  withered  ivy-covered  trunk  can  bear  up  its 
strong,  full-boughed  offspring  crashing  down  under  an  Alpine 
storm.     Janet  felt  she  was  alone :  no  human  soul  had  measured 
her  anguish,  had  understood  her  self -despair,  had  entered  into 
her  sorrows  and  her  sins  with  that  deep-sighted  sympathy 
which  is  wiser  than  all  blauie,  more  potent  than  all  reproof — 


308  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

such  sympathy  as  had  swelled  her  own  heart  for  many  a 
sufferer.  And  if  there  was  any  Divine  Pity,  she  could  not  feel 
it;  it  kept  aloof  from  her,  it  poured  no  balm  into  her  wounds, 
it  stretched  out  no  hand  to  bear  up  her  weak  resolve,  to  fortify 
her  fainting  courage. 

Now,  in  her  utmost  loneliness,  she  shed  no  tear:  she  sat 
staring  fixedly  into  the  darkness,  while  inwardly  she  gazed  at 
her  own  past,  almost  losing  the  sense  that  it  was  her  own,  or 
that  she  was  anything  more  than  a  spectator  at  a  strange  and 
dreadful  play. 

The  loud  sound  of  the  church  clock,  striking  one,  startled 
her.  She  had  not  been  there  more  than  half  an  hour,  then? 
And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  there  half  the  night. 
She  was  getting  benumbed  with  cold.  With  that  strong 
instinctive  dread  of  pain  and  death  which  had  made  her  recoil 
from  suicide,  she  started  up,  and  the  disagreeable  sensation 
of  resting  on  her  benumbed  feet  helped  to  recall  her  completely 
to  the  sense  of  the  present.  The  wind  was  beginning  to  make 
rents  iii  the  clouds,  and  there  came  every  now  and  then  a  dim 
light  of  stars  that  frightened  her  more  than  the  darkness ;  it 
was  like  a  cruel  finger  pointing  her  out  in  her  wretchedness 
and  humiliation ;  it  made  her  shudder  at  the  thought  of  the 
morning  twilight.  What  could  she  do?  Not  go  to  her  mother 
— not  rouse  her  in  the  dead  of  night  to  tell  her  this.  Her 
mother  would  think  she  was  a  spectre;  it  would  be  enough  to 
kill  her  with  horror.  And  the  way  there  was  so  long  ...  if 
she  should  meet  some  one  .  .  .  yet  she  must  seek  some  shel- 
ter, somewhere  to  hide  herself.  Five  doors  off  there  was 
Mrs.  Pettifer's ;  that  kind  woman  would  take  her  in.  It  was 
of  no  use  now  to  be  proud  and  mind  about  the  world's  know- 
ing :  she  had  nothing  to  wish  for,  nothing  to  care  about ;  only 
she  could  not  help  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  braving  the 
morning  light,  there  in  the  street — she  was  frightened  at  the 
thought  of  spending  long  hours  in  the  cold.  Life  might  mean 
anguish,  might  mean  despair;  but — oh,  she  must  clutch  it, 
though  with  bleeding  fingers ;  her  feet  must  cling  to  the  firm 
earth  that  the  sunlight  would  revisit,  not  slip  into  the  untried 
abyss,  where  she  might  long  even  for  familiar  pains. 

Janet  trod  slowly  with  her  naked  feet  on  the  rough  pave- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  309 

ment,  trembling  at  the  fitful  gleams  of  starlight,  and  support- 
ing herself  by  the  wall,  as  the  gusts  of  wind  drove  right 
against  her.  The  very  wind  was  cruel :  it  tried  to  push  her 
back  from  the  door  where  she  wanted  to  go  and  knock  and  ask 
for  pity. 

Mrs.  Pettifer's  house  did  not  look  into  Orchard  Street :  it 
stood  a  little  way  up  a  wide  passage  which  opened  into  the 
street  through  an  archway.  Janet  turned  up  the  archway, 
and  saw  a  faint  light  coming  from  Mrs.  Pettifer's  bedroom 
window.  The  glimmer  of  a  rushlight  from  a  room  where  a 
friend  was  lying,  was  like  a  ray  of  mercy  to  Janet,  after  that 
long,  long  time  of  darkness  and  loneliness ;  it  would  not  be  so 
dreadful  to  awake  Mrs.  Pettifer  as  she  had  thought.  Yet  she 
lingered  some  minutes  at  the  door  before  she  gathered  courage 
to  knock ;  she  felt  as  if  the  sound  must  betray  her  to  others 
besides  Mrs.  Pettifer,  though  there  was  no  other  dwelling  that 
opened  into  the  passage — only  warehouses  and  outbuildings. 
There  was  no  gravel  for  her  to  throw  up  at  the  window,  noth- 
ing but  heavy  pavement;  there  was  no  door-bell;  she  must 
knock.  Her  first  rap  was  very  timid — one  feeble  fall  of  the 
knocker ;  and  then  she  stood  still  again  for  many  minutes ;  but 
presently  she  rallied  her  courage  and  knocked  several  times 
together,  not  loudly,  but  rapidly,  so  that  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  she 
only  heard  the  sound,  could  not  mistake  it.  And  she  had 
heard  it,  for  by  and  by  the  casement  of  her  window  was 
opened,  and  Janet  perceived  that  she  was  bending  out  to  try 
and  discern  who  it  was  at  the  door. 

"  It  is  I,  Mrs.  Pettifer ;  it  is  Janet  Dempster.  Take  me  in; 
for  pity's  sake." 

"Merciful  God!  what  has  happened?" 

"  Robert  has  turned  me  out.  I  have  been  in  the  cold  a  long 
while." 

Mrs.  Pettifer  said  no  more,  but  hurried  away  from  the  win- 
dow, and  was  soon  at  the  door  with  a  light  in  her  hand. 

"  Come  in,  my  poor  dear,  come  in, "  said  the  good  woman  in 
a  tremulous  voice,  drawing  Janet  within  the  door.  "  Come 
into  my  warm  bed,  and  may  God  in  heaven  save  and  comfort 
you. " 

The  pitying  eyes,  the  tender  voice,  the  warm  touch,  caused 


310  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

a  rush  of  new  feeling  in  Janet.  Her  heart  swelled,  and  she 
burst  out  suddenly,  like  a  child,  into  loud  passionate  sobs. 
Mrs.  Pettifer  could  not  help  crying  with  her,  but  she  said, 
"Come  upstairs,  my  dear,  come.  Don't  linger  in  the  cold." 

She  drew  the  poor  sobbing  thing  gently  upstairs,  and  per- 
suaded her  to  get  into  the  warm  bed.  But  it  was  long  before 
Janet  could  lie  down.  She  sat  leaning  her  head  on  her  knees, 
convulsed  by  sobs,  while  the  motherly  woman  covered  her 
with  clothes  and  held  her  arms  round  her  to  comfort  her  with 
warmth.  At  last  the  hysterical  passion  had  exhausted  itself, 
and  she  fell  back  on  the  pillow ;  but  her  throat  was  still  agi- 
tated by  piteous  after-sobs,  such  as  shake  a  little  child  even 
when  it  has  found  a  refuge  from  its  alarms  on  its  mother's 
lap. 

Now  Janet  was  getting  quieter,  Mrs.  Pettifer  determined 
to  go  down  and  make  a  cup  of  tea,  the  first  thing  a  kind  old 
woman  thinks  of  as  a  solace  and  restorative  under  all  calami- 
ties. Happily  there  was  no  danger  of  awaking  her  servant, 
a  heavy  girl  of  sixteen,  who  was  snoring  blissfully  in  the 
attic,  and  might  be  kept  ignorant  of  the  way  in  which  Mrs. 
Dempster  had  come  in.  So  Mrs.  Pettifer  busied  herself  with 
rousing  the  kitchen  fire,  which  was  kept  in  under  a  huge 
"  raker  " — a  possibility  by  which  the  coal  of  the  midland  coun- 
ties atones  for  all  its  slowness  and  white  ashes. 

When  she  carried  up  the  tea,  Janet  was  lying  quite  still ; 
the  spasmodic  agitation  had  ceased,  and  she  seemed  lost  in 
thought;  her  eyes  were  fixed  vacantly  on  the  rushlight  shade, 
and  all  the  lines  of  sorrow  were  deepened  in  her  face. 

"  Now,  my  dear, "  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  "  let  me  persuade  you 
to  drink  a  cup  of  tea;  you'll  find  it'll  warm  you  and  soothe 
you  very  much.  Why,  dear  heart,  your  feet  are  like  ice  still. 
Now,  do  drink  this  tea,  and  I'll  wrap  'em  up  in  flannel,  and 
then  they'll  get  warm." 

Janet  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  her  old  friend  and  stretched 
out  her  arms.  She  was  too  much  oppressed  to  say  anything ; 
her  suffering  lay  like  a  heavy  weight  on  her  power  of  speech ; 
but  she  wanted  to  kiss  the  good  kind  woman.  Mrs.  Pettifer, 
setting  down  the  cup,  bent  toward  the  sad  beautiful  face,  and 
Janet  kissed  her  with  earnest  sacramental  kisses — such  kisses 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  311 

as  seal  a  new  and  closer  bond  between  the  helper  and  the 
helped. 

She  drank  the  tea  obediently.  "It  does  warm  me,"  she 
said.  "  But  now  you  will  get  into  bed.  I  shall  lie  still  now." 

Mrs.  Pettifer  felt  it  was  the  best  thing  she  could  do  to  lie 
down  quietly  and  say  no  more.  She  hoped  Janet  might  go  to 
sleep.  As  for  herself,  with  that  tendency  to  wakefulness 
common  to  advanced  years,  she  found  it  impossible  to  com- 
pose herself  to  sleep  again  after  this  agitating  surprise.  She 
lay  listening  to  the  clock,  wondering  what  had  led  to  this  new 
outrage  of  Dempster's,  praying  for  the  poor  thing  at  her  side, 
and  pitying  the  mother  who  would  have  to  hear  it  all  to- 
morrow 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

JANET  lay  still,  as  she  had  promised;  but  the  tea,  which 
had  warmed  her  and  given  her  a  sense  of  greater  bodily  ease, 
had  only  heightened  the  previous  excitement  of  her  brain. 
Her  ideas  had  a  new  vividness,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
had  only  seen  life  through  a  dim  haze  before;  her  thoughts, 
instead  of  springing  from  the  action  of  her  own  mind,  were 
external  existences,  that  thrust  themselves  imperiously  upon 
her  like  haunting  visions.  The  future  took  shape  after  shape 
of  misery  before  her,  always  ending  in  her  being  dragged 
back  again  to  her  old  life  of  terror,  and  stupor,  and  fevered 
despair.  Her  husband  had  so  long  overshadowed  her  life  that 
her  imagination  could  not  keep  hold  of  a  condition  in  which 
that  great  dread  was  absent;  and  even  his  absence — what  was 
it?  only  a  dreary  vacant  flat,  where  there  was  nothing  to  strive 
after,  nothing  to  long  for. 

At  last  the  light  of  morning  quenched  the  rushlight,  and 
Janet' s  thoughts  became  more  and  more  fragmentary  and  con- 
fused. She  was  every  moment  slipping  off  the  level  on  which 
she  lay  thinking,  down,  down  into  some  depth  from  which  she 
tried  to  rise  again  with  a  start.  Slumber  was  stealing  over 
her  weary  brain :  that  uneasy  slumber  which  is  only  better 
than  wretched  waking,  because  the  life  we  seemed  to  live  in 


312  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

it  determines  no  wretched  future,  because  the  things  we  do  and 
suffer  in  it  are  but  hateful  shadows,  and  leave  no  impress  that 
petrifies  into  an  irrevocable  past. 

She  had  scarcely  been  asleep  an  hour  when  her  movements 
became  more  violent,  her  mutterings  more  frequent  and  agi- 
tated, till  at  last  she .  started  up  with  a  smothered  cry,  and 
looked  wildly  round  her,  shaking  with  terror. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,"  said  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer,  who  was  up  and  dressing;  "you  are  with  me,  your  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Pettifer.  Nothing  will  harm  you." 

Janet  sank  back  again  on  her  pillow,  still  trembling.  Af- 
ter lying  silent  a  little  while,  she  said,  "  It  was  a  horrible 
dream.  Dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  don't  let  any  one  know  I  am 
here.  Keep  it  a  secret.  If  he  finds  out,  he  will  come  and 
drag  me  back  again." 

"No,  my  dear,  depend  on  me.  I've  just  thought  I  shall 
send  the  servant  home  on  a  holiday — I've  promised  her  a  good 
while.  I'll  send  her  away  as  soon  as  she's  had  her  breakfast, 
and  she'll  have  no  occasion  to  know  you're  here.  There's  no 
holding  servants'  tongues,  if  you  let  'ern  know  anything. 
What  they  don't  know,  they  won't  tell;  you  may  trust  'em  so 
far.  But  shouldn't  you  like  me  to  go  and  fetch  your  mother?  " 

"No,  not  yet,  not  yet.     I  can't  bear  to  see  her  yet." 

"Well,  it  shall  be  just  as  you  like.  Now  try  and  get  to 
sleep  again.  I  shall  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  send 
off  Phoebe,  and  then  bring  you  some  breakfast.  I'll  lock  the 
door  behind  me,  so  that  the  girl  mayn't  come  in  by  chance." 

The  daylight  changes  the  aspect  of  misery  to  us,  as  of 
everything  else.  In  the  night  it  presses  on  our  imagination — 
the  forms  it  takes  are  false,  fitful,  exaggerated ;  in  broad  day 
it  sickens  our  sense  with  the  dreary  persistence  of  definite 
measurable  reality.  The  man  who  looks  with  ghastly  horror 
on  all  his  property  aflame  in  the  dead  of  night,  has  not  half 
the  sense  of  destitution  he  will  have  in  the  morning,  when  he 
walks  over  the  ruins  lying  blackened  in  the  pitiless  sunshine. 
That  moment  of  intensest  depression  was  come  to  Janet,  when 
the  daylight  which  showed  her  the  walls,  and  chairs,  and  ta- 
bles, and  all  the  commonplace  reality  that  surrounded  her, 
seemed  to  lay  bare  the  future  too,  and  bring  out  into  oppres- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  313 

sive  distinctness  all  the  details  of  a  weary  life  to  be  lived  from 
day  to  day,  with  no  hope  to  strengthen  her  against  that  evil 
habit,  which  she  loathed  in  retrospect  and  yet  was  powerless 
to  resist.  Her  husband  would  never  consent  to  her  living 
away  from  him :  she  was  become  necessary  to  his  tyranny ;  he 
would  never  willingly  loosen  his  grasp  on  her.  She  had  a 
vague  notion  of  some  protection  the  law  might  give  her,  if  she 
could  prove  her  life  in  danger  from  him ;  but  she  shrank  ut- 
terly, as  she  had  always  done,  from  any  active,  public  resist- 
ance or  vengeance :  she  felt  too  crushed,  too  faulty,  too  liable 
to  reproach,  to  have  the  courage,  even  if  she  had  had  the 
wish,  to  put  herself  openly  in  the  position  of  a  wronged  woman 
seeking  redress.  She  had  no  strength  to  sustain  her  in  a  course 
of  self-defence  and  independence :  there  was  a  darker  shadow 
over  her  life  than  the  dread  of  her  husband — it  was  the  shad- 
ow of  self-despair.  The  easiest  thing  would  be  to  go  away 
and  hide  herself  from  him.  But  then  there  was  her  mother : 
Robert  had  all  her  little  property  in  his  hands,  and  that  little 
was  scarcely  enough  to  keep  her  in  comfort  without  his  aid. 
If  Janet  went  away  alone  he  would  be  sure  to  persecute  her 
mother;  and  if  she  did  go  away — what  then?  She  must  work 
to  maintain  herself;  she  must  exert  herself,  weary  and  hope- 
less as  she  was,  to  begin  life  afresh.  How  hard  that  seemed 
to  her!  Janet's  nature  did  not  belie  her  grand  face  and  form : 
there  was  energy,  there  was  strength  in  it;  but  it  was  the 
strength  of  the  vine,  which  must  have  its  broad  leaves  and 
rich  clusters  borne  up  by  a  firm  stay.  And  now  she  had  noth- 
ing to  rest  on — no  faith,  no  love.  If  her  mother  had  been 
very  feeble,  aged,  or  sickly,  Janet's  deep  pity  and  tenderness 
might  have  made  a  daughter's  duties  an  interest  and  a  solace; 
but  Mrs.  Raynor  had  never  needed  tendance ;  she  had  always 
been  giving  help  to  her  daughter;  she  had  always  been  a  sort 
of  humble  ministering  spirit;  and  it  was  one  of  Janet's  pangs 
cf  memory,  that  instead  of  being  her  mother's  comfort,  she 
had  been  her  mother' s  trial.  Everywhere  the  same  sadness ! 
Her  life  was  a  sun-dried,  barren  tract,  where  there  was  no 
shadow,  and  where  all  the  waters  were  bitter. 

No !     She  suddenly  thought — and  the  thought  was  like  an 
electric  shock — there  was  one    spot  in  her    memory  which 


314  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

seemed  to  promise  her  an  untried  spring,  where  the  waters 
might  be  sweet.  That  short  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  had 
come  back  upon  her — his  voice,  his  words,  his  look,  which 
told  her  that  he  knew  sorrow.  His  words  had  implied  that 
he  thought  his  death  was  near,  yet  he  had  a  faith  which  en- 
abled him  to  labor — enabled  him  to  give  comfort  to  others. 
That  look  of  his  came  back  on  her  with  a  vividness  greater 
than  it  had  had  for  her  in  reality :  surely  he  knew  more  of  the 
secrets  of  sorrow  than  other  men ;  perhaps  he  had  some  mes- 
sage of  comfort,  different  from  the  feeble  words  she  had  been 
used  to  hear  from  others.  She  was  tired,  she  was  sick  of  that 
barren  exhortation — Do  right,  and  keep  a  clear  conscience, 
and  God  will  reward  you,  and  your  troubles  will  be  easier  to 
bear.  She  wanted  strength  to  do  right — she  wanted  some- 
thing to  rely  on  besides  her  own  resolutions ;  for  was  not  the 
path  behind  her  all  strewn  with  broken  resolutions?  How 
could  she  trust  in  new  ones?  She  had  often  heard  Mr.  Tryan 
laughed  at  for  being  fond  of  great  sinners.  She  began  to  see 
a  new  meaning  in  those  words ;  he  would  perhaps  understand 
her  helplessness,  her  wants.  If  she  could  pour  out  her  heart 
to  him !  If  she  could  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  unlock  all 
the  chambers  of  her  soul ! 

The  impulse  to  confession  almost  always  requires  the  pres- 
ence of  a  fresh  ear  and  a  fresh  heart ;  and  in  our  moments  of 
spiritual  need,  the  man  to  whom  we  have  no  tie  but  our  com- 
mon nature,  seems  nearer  to  us  than  mother,  brother,  or  friend. 
Our  daily  familiar  life  is  but  a  hiding  of  ourselves  from  each 
other  behind  a  screen  of  trivial  words  and  deeds,  and  those 
who  sit  with  us  at  the  same  hearth  are  often  the  farthest  off 
from  the  deep  human  soul  within  us,  full  of  unspoken  evil 
and  unacted  good. 

When  Mrs.  Pettifer  came  back  to  her,  turning  the  key  and 
opening  the  door  very  gently,  Janet,  instead  of  being  asleep, 
as  her  good  friend  had  hoped,  was  intensely  occupied  with  her 
new  thought.  She  longed  to  ask  Mrs.  Pettifer  if  she  could 
see  Mr.  Tryan;  but  she  was  arrested  by  doubts  and  timidity. 
He  might  not  feel  for  her — he  might  be  shocked  at  her  confes- 
sion— he  might  talk  to  her  of  doctrines  she  could  not  under- 
stand or  believe.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  yet;  but 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  315 

she  was  too  restless  under  this  mental  struggle  to  remain  in 
bed. 

"Mrs.  Pettifer,"  she  said,  "I  can't  lie  here  any  longer;  I 
must  get  up.  Will  you  lend  me  some  clothes?  " 

Wrapt  in  such  drapery  as  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  find  for  her 
tall  figure,  Janet  went  down  into  the  little  parlor,  and  tried  to 
take  some  of  the  breakfast  her  friend  had  prepared  for  her. 
P>ut  her  effort  was  not  a  successful  one;  her  cup  of  tea  and  bit 
of  toast  were  only  half  finished.  The  leaden  weight  of  dis- 
couragement pressed  upon  her  more  and  more  heavily.  The 
wind  had  fallen,  and  a  drizzling  rain  had  come  on;  there  was 
no  prospect  from  Mrs.  Pettifer' s  parlor  but  a  blank  wall;  and 
as  Janet  looked  out  at  the  window,  the  rain  and  the  smoke- 
blackened  bricks  seemed  to  blend  themselves  in  sickening 
identity  with  her  desolation  of  spirit  and  the  headachy  weari- 
ness of  her  body. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  got  through  her  household  work  as  soon  as  she 
could,  and  sat  down  with  her  sewing,  hoping  that  Janet 
would  perhaps  be  able  to  talk  a  little  of  what  had  passed,  and 
find  some  relief  by  unbosoming  herself  in  that  way.  But 
Janet  could  not  speak  to  her;  she  was  importuned  with  the 
longing  to  see  Mr.  Tryan,  and  yet  hesitating  to  express  it. 

Two  hours  passed  in  this  way.  The  rain  went  on  drizzling, 
and  Janet  sat  still,  leaning  her  aching  head  on  her  hand,  and 
looking  alternately  at  the  fire  and  out  of  the  window.  She 
felt  this  could  not  last — this  motionless,  vacant  misery.  She 
must  determine  on  something,  she  must  take  some  step ;  and 
yet  everything  was  so  difficult. 

It  was  one  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  rose  from  her  seat, 
saying,  "  I  must  go  and  see  about  dinner. " 

The  movement  and  the  sound  startled  Janet  from  her  revery. 
It  seemed  as  if  an  opportunity  were  escaping  her,  and  she  said 
hastily,  "  Is  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  town  to-day,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Xo,  I  should  think  not,  being  Saturday,  you  know, "  said 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  her  face  lighting  up  with  pleasure:  "but  he 
would  come,  if  he  was  sent  for.  I  can  send  Jesson's  boy  with 
a  note  to  him  any  time.  Should  you  like  to  see  him?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  should." 

"Then  I'll  send  for  him  this  instant.'' 


316  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

WHEN  Dempster  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  was  at  no  loss 
to  account  to  himself  for  the  fact  that  Janet  was  not  by  his 
side.  His  hours  of  drunkenness  were  not  cut  off  from  his 
other  hours  by  any  blank  wall  of  oblivion;  he  remembered 
what  Janet  had  done  to  offend  him  the  evening  before,  he 
remembered  what  he  had  done  to  her  at  midnight,  just  as  he 
would  have  remembered  if  he  had  been  consulted  about  a  right 
of  road. 

The  remembrance  gave  him  a  definite  ground  for  the  extra 
ill-humor  which  had  attended  his  waking  every  morning  this 
week,  but  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  it  cost  him  any 
anxiety.  "  Pooh, "  he  said  inwardly,  "  she  would  go  straight 
to  her  mother's.  She's  as  timid  as  a  hare;  and  she'll  never 
let  anybody  know  it.  She'll  be  back  again  before  night." 

But  it  would  be  as  well  for  the  servants  not  to  know  any- 
thing of  the  affair :  so  he  collected  the  clothes  she  had  taken 
off  the  night  before,  and  threw  them  into  a  fire-proof  closet  of 
which  he  always  kept  the  key  in  his  pocket.  When  he  went 
downstairs  he  said  to  the  housemaid,  "  Mrs.  Dempster  is  gone 
to  her  mother' s ;  bring  in  the  breakfast. " 

The  servants,  accustomed  to  hear  domestic  broils,  and  to  see 
their  mistress  put  on  her  bonnet  hastily  and  go  to  her  moth- 
er's, thought  it  only  something  a  little  worse  than  usual  that 
she  should  have  gone  thither  in  consequence  of  a  violent  quar- 
rel, either  at  midnight,  or  in  the  early  morning  before  they 
were  up.  The  housemaid  told  the  cook  what  she  supposed 
had  happened ;  the  cook  shook  her  head  and  said,  "  Eh,  dear, 
dear ! "  but  they  both  expected  to  see  their  mistress  back 
again  in  an  hour  or  two. 

Dempster,  on  his  return  home  the  evening  before,  had 
ordered  his  man,  who  lived  away  from  the  house,  to  bring  up 
his  horse  and  gig  from  the  stables  at  ten.  After  breakfast  he 
said  to  the  housemaid,  "  No  one  need  sit  up  for  me  to-night ; 
I  shall  not  be  at  home  till  to-morrow  evening  " ;  and  then  he 
walked  to  the  office  to  give  some  orders,  expecting,  as  he  re- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  317 

turned,  to  see  the  man  waiting  with  his  gig.  But  though  the 
church  clock  had  struck  ten,  no  gig  was  there.  In  Dempster's 
mood  this  was  more  than  enough  to  exasperate  him.  He 
went  in  to  take  his  accustomed  glass  of  brandy  before  setting 
out,  promising  himself  the  satisfaction  of  presently  thundering 
at  Dawes  for  being  a  few  minutes  behind  his  time.  An  out- 
break of  temper  toward  his  man  was  not  common  with  him ; 
for  Dempster,  like  most  tyrannous  people,  had  that  dastardly 
kind  of  self-restraint  which  enabled  him  to  control  his  temper 
where  it  suited  his  own  convenience  to  do  so ;  and  feeling  the 
value  of  Dawes,  a  steady  punctual  fellow,  he  not  only  gave 
him  high  wages,  but  usually  treated  him  with  exceptional 
civility.  This  morning,  however,  ill-humor  got  the  better  of 
prudence,  and  Dempster  was  determined  to  rate  him  soundly; 
a  resolution  for  which  Dawes  gave  him  much  better  ground 
than  he  expected.  Five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  had  passed,  and  Dempster  was  setting  off  to  the  sta- 
bles in  a  back  street  to  see  what  was  the  cause  of  the  delay, 
when  Dawes  appeared  with  the  gig. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  keep  me  here  for, "  thundered 
Dempster,  "  kicking  my  heels  like  a  beggarly  tailor  waiting  for 
a  carrier's  cart?  I  ordered  you  to  be  here  at  ten.  We  might 
have  driven  to  Whitlow  by  this  time." 

"  Why,  one  o'  the  traces  was  welly  i'  two,  an'  I  had  to  take 
it  to  Brady's  to  be  mended,  an'  he  didn't  get  it  done  i'  time." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  take  it  to  him  last  night?  Because 
of  your  damned  laziness,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  I  give  you 
wages  for  you  to  choose  your  own  hours,  and  come  dawdling 
up  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  my  time?  " 

"  Come,  give  me  good  words,  will  yer?  "  said  Dawes,  sulk- 
ily. "I'm  not  lazy,  nor  no  man  shall  call  me  lazy.  I  know 
well  anuff  what  you  gi'  me  wages  for;  it's  for  doin'  what  yer 
won't  find  many  men  as  'ull  do." 

"  What !  you  impudent  scoundrel, "  said  Dempster,  getting 
into  the  gig,  "you  think  you're  necessary  to  me,  do  you?  As 
if  a  beastly  bucket-carrying  idiot  like  you  wasn't  to  be  got  any 
day.  Look  out  for  a  new  master,  then,  who'll  pay  you  for 
not  doing  as  you're  bid." 

Dawes's  blood  was  now  fairly  up.     "  I'll  look  out  for  a 


318  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

master  as  has  got  a  better  charicter  nor  a  lyin',  bletherin' 
drunkard,  an'  I  shouldn't  hev  to  go  fur." 

Dempster,  furious,  snatched  the  whip  from  the  socket,  and 
gave  Dawes  a  cut  which  he  meant  to  fall  across  his  shoulders, 
saying,  "  Take  that,  sir,  and  go  to  hell  with  you !  " 

Dawes  was  in  the  act  of  turning  with  the  reins  in  his  hand 
when  the  lash  fell,  and  the  cut  went  across  his  face.  With 
white  lips,  he  said,  "  I'll  have  the  law  on  yer  for  that,  lawyer 
as  y'are,"  and  threw  the  reins  on  the  horse's  back. 

Dempster  leaned  forward,  seized  the  reins,  and  drove  off. 

"  Why,  there's  your  friend  Dempster  driving  out  without 
his  man  again,"  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  was  chatting  with 
Mr.  Budd  in  the  Bridge  Way.  "  What  a  fool  he  is  to  drive 
that  two-wheeled  thing!  he'll  get  pitched  on  his  head  one  of 
these  days." 

"Not  he,"  said  Mr.  Budd,  nodding  to  Dempster  as  he 
passed}  "he's  got  nine  lives,  Dempster  has." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IT  was  dusk,  and  the  candles  were  lighted  before  Mr.  Try- 
an  knocked  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's  door.  Her  messenger  had 
brought  back  word  that  he  was  not  at  home,  and  all  afternoon 
Janet  had  been  agitated  by  the  fear  that  he  would  not  come; 
but  as  soon  as  that  anxiety  was  removed  by  the  knock  at  the 
door,  she  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  doubt  and  timidity :  she  trem- 
bled and  turned  cold. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  went  to  open  the  door,  and  told  Mr.  Tryan, 
in  as  few  words  as  possible,  what  had  happened  in  the  night. 
As  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  prepared  to  enter  the  parlor,  she 
said,  "  I  won't  go  in  with  you,  for  I  think  perhaps  she  would 
rather  see  you  go  in  alone." 

Janet,  wrapped  up  in  a  large  white  shawl  which  threw  her 
dark  face  into  startling  relief,  was  seated  with  her  eyes  turned 
anxiously  toward  the  door  when  Mr.  Tryan  entered.  He  had 
not  seen  her  since  their  interview  at  Sally  Martin's  long 
months  ago ;  and  he  felt  a  strong  movement  of  compassion  at 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  319 

;yht  of  the  pain-stricken  face  which  seemed  to  bear  writ- 
tea  on  it  the  signs  of  all  Janet's  intervening  misery.  Her 
heart  gave  a  great  leap,  as  her  eyes  met  his  once  more.  No ! 
she  had  not  deceived  herself:  there  was  all  the  sincerity,  all 
the  sadness,  all  the  deep  pity  in  them  her  memory  had  told 
her  of;  more  than  it  had  told  her,  for  in  proportion  as  his  face 
had  become  thinner  and  more  worn,  his  eyes  appeared  to  have 
gathered  intensity. 

He  came  forward,  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "I  am  so 
glad  you  sent  for  me — I  am  so  thankful  you  thought  I  could 
be  any  comfort  to  you. "  Janet  took  his  hand  in  silence.  She 
was  unable  to  utter  any  words  of  mere  politeness,  or  even  of 
gratitude;  her  heart  was  too  full  of  other  words  that  had 
welled  up  the  moment  she  met  his  pitying  glance,  and  felt  her 
doubts  fall  away. 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  and  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  while  slow  difficult  tears  gathered  in  her  aching  eyes — 

"I  want  to  tell  you  how  unhappy  I  am — how  weak  and 
wicked.  I  feel  no  strength  to  live  or  die.  I  thought  you 
could  tell  me  something  that  would  help  me."  She  paused. 

"  Perhaps  I  can, "  Mr.  Tryan  said,  "  for  in  speaking  to  me 
you  are  speaking  to  a  fellow-sinner  who  has  needed  just  the 
comfort  and  help  you  are  needing." 

"  And  you  did  find  it?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  I  trust  you  will  find  it. " 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  be  good  and  to  do  right, "  Janet  burst 
forth ;  "  but  indeed,  indeed,  my  lot  has  been  a  very  hard  one. 
I  loved  my  husband  very  dearly  when  we  were  married,  and  I 
meant  to  make  him  happy — I  wanted  nothing  else.  But  he 
began  to  be  angry  with  me  for  little  things  and  ...  I  don't 
want  to  accuse  him  .  .  .  but  he  drank  and  got  more  and  more 
unkind  to  me,  and  then  very  cruel,  and  he  beat  me.  And  that 
cut  me  to  the  heart.  It  made  me  almost  mad  sometimes  to 
think  all  our  love  had  come  to  that  ...  I  couldn't  bear  up 
against  it.  I  had  never  been  used  to  drink  anything  but  wa- 
ter. I  hated  wine  and  spirits  because  Robert  drank  them  so; 
but  one  day  when  I  was  very  wretched,  and  the  wine  was 
standing  on  the  table,  I  suddenly  ...  I  can  hardly  remem- 
ber how  I  came  to  do  it  .  .  .  I  poured  some  wine  into  a  large 


320  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

glass  and  drank  it.  It  blunted  my  feelings,  and  made  me 
more  indifferent.  After  that,  the  temptation  was  always  com- 
ing, and  it  got  stronger  and  stronger.  I  was  ashamed,  and  I 
hated  what  I  did ;  but  almost  while  the  thought  was  passing 
through  my  mind  that  I  would  never  do  it  again,  I  did  it.  It 
seemed  as  if  there  was  a  demon  in  me  always  making  me  rush 
to  do  what  I  longed  not  to  do.  And  I  thought  all  the  more 
that  God  was  cruel ;  for  if  He  had  not  sent  me  that  dreadful 
trial,  so  much  worse  than  other  women  have  to  bear,  I  should 
not  have  done  wrong  in  that  way.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  to 
think  so  ...  I  feel  as  if  there  must  be  goodness  and  right 
above  us,  but  I  can't  see  it,  I  can't  trust  in  it.  And  I  have 
gone  on  in  that  way  for  years  and  years.  At  one  time  it  used 
to  be  better  now  and  then,  but  everything  has  got  worse  lately : 
I  felt  sure  it  must  soon  end  somehow.  And  last  night  he 
turned  me  out  of  doors  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  will 
never  go  back  to  that  life  again  if  I  can  help  it ;  and  yet  every- 
thing else  seems  so  miserable.  I  feel  sure  that  demon  will  be 
always  urging  me  to  satisfy  the  craving  that  comes  upon  me, 
and  the  days  will  go  on  as  they  have  done  through  all  those 
miserable  years.  I  shall  always  be  doing  wrong,  and  hating 
myself  after — sinking  lower  and  lower,  and  knowing  that  I  am 
sinking.  Oh,  can  you  tell  me  any  way  of  getting  strength? 
Have  you  ever  known  any  one  like  me  that  got  peace  of  mind 
and  power  to  do  right?  Can  you  give  me  any  comfort — any 
hope?" 

While  Janet  was  speaking,  she  had  forgotten  everything  but 
her  misery  and  her  yearning  for  comfort.  Her  voice  had 
risen  from  the  low  tone  of  timid  distress  to  an  intense  pitch  of 
imploring  anguish.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and  looked 
at  Mr.  Tryan  with  eager  questioning  eyes,  with  parted  trem- 
bling lips,  with  the  deep  horizontal  lines  of  overmastering  pain 
on  her  brow.  In  this  artificial  life  of  ours,  it  is  not  often  we 
see  a  human  face  with  all  a  heart's  agony  in  it,  uncontrolled 
by  self-consciousness;  when  we  do  see  it,  it  startles  us  as  if 
we  had  suddenly  waked  into  the  real  world  of  which  this 
every-dayone  is  but  a  puppet-show  copy.  For  some  moments 
Mr.  Tryan  was  too  deeply  moved  to  speak. 

"Yes,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,"  he  said  at  last,  "there  is  com- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  321 

fort,  there  is  hope  for  you.  Believe  me  there  is,  for  I  speak 
from  iny  own  deep  and  hard  experience."  He  paused,  as  if 
he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  utter  the  words  that  were 
urging  themselves  to  his  lips.  Presently  he  continued,  "  Ten 
years  ago,  I  felt  as  wretched  as  you  do.  I  think  my  wretch- 
edness was  even  worse  than  yours,  for  I  had  a  heavier  sin  on 
my  conscience.  I  had  suffered  no  wrong  from  others  as  you 
have,  and  I  had  injured  another  irreparably  in  body  and  soul. 
The  image  of  the  wrong  I  had  done  pursued  me  everywhere, 
and  I  seemed  on  the  brink  of  madness.  I  hated  my  life,  for 
I  thought,  just  as  you  do,  that  I  should  go  on  falling  into 
temptation  and  doing  more  harm  in  the  world ;  and  I  dreaded 
death,  for  with  that  sense  of  guilt  on  my  soul,  I  felt  that 
whatever  state  I  entered  on  must  be  one  of  misery.  But  a 
dear  friend  to  whom  I  opened  my  mind  showed  me  it  was  just 
such  as  I — the  helpless  who  feel  themselves  helpless — that 
God  specially  invites  to  come  to  Him,  and  offers  all  the  riches 
of  His  salvation :  not  forgiveness  only ;  forgiveness  would  be 
worth  little  if  it  left  us  under  the  powers  of  our  evil  passions ; 
but  strength — that  strength  which  enables  us  to  conquer  sin. " 

"  But, "  said  Janet,  "  I  can  feel  no  trust  in  God.  He  seems 
always  to  have  left  me  to  myself.  I  have  sometimes  prayed 
to  Him  to  help  me,  and  yet  everything  has  been  just  the  same 
as  before.  If  you  felt  like  me,  how  did  you  come  to  have 
hope  and  trust?  " 

"  Do  not  believe  that  God  has  left  you  to  yourself.  How 
can  you  tell  but  that  the  hardest  trials  you  have  known  have 
been  only  the  road  by  which  He  was  leading  you  to  that  com- 
plete sense  of  your  own  sin  and  helplessness,  without  which 
you  would  never  have  renounced  all  other  hopes,  and  trusted 
in  His  love  alone?  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know  it 
is  hard  to  bear.  I  would  not  speak  lightly  of  your  sorrows. 
I  feel  that  the  mystery  of  our  life  is  great,  and  at  one  time  it 
seemed  as  dark  to  me  as  it  does  to  you."  Mr.  Try  an  hesitated 
again.  He  saw  that  the  first  thing  Janet  needed  was  to  be 
assured  of  sympathy.  She  must  be  made  to  feel  that  her 
anguish  was  not  strange  to  him ;  that  he  entered  into  the  only 
half -expressed  secrets  of  her  spiritual  weakness,  before  any 
other  message  of  consolation  could  find  its  way  to  her  heart. 


322  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

The  tale  of  the  Divine  Pity  was  never  yet  believed  from  lips 
that  were  not  felt  to  be  moved  by  human  pity.  And  Janet's 
anguish  was  not  strange  to  Mr.  Tryan.  He  had  never  been  in 
the  presence  of  a  sorrow  and  a  self -despair  that  had  sent  so 
strong  a  thrill  through  all  the  recesses  of  his  saddest  experi- 
ence; and  it  is  because  sympathy  is  but  a  living  again  through 
our  own  past  in  a  new  form,  that  confession  often  prompts  a 
response  to  confession.  Mr.  Tryan  felt  this  prompting,  and 
his  judgment,  too,  told  him  that  in  obeying  it  he  would  be 
taking  the  best  means  of  administering  comfort  to  Janet. 
Yet  he  hesitated ;  as  we  tremble  to  let  in  the  daylight  on  a 
chamber  of  relics  which  we  have  never  visited  except  in  cur- 
tained silence.  But  the  first  impulse  triumphed,  and  he  went 
on.  "  I  had  lived  all  my  life  at  a  distance  from  God.  My 
youth  was  spent  in  thoughtless  self-indulgence,  and  all  my 
hopes  were  of  a  vain  worldly  kind.  I  had  no  thought  of  en- 
tering the  Church ;  I  looked  forward  to  a  political  career,  for 
my  father  was  private  secretary  to  a  man  high  in  the  Whig 
Ministry,  and  had  been  promised  strong  interest  in  my  behalf. 
At  college  I  lived  in  intimacy  with  the  gayest  men,  even  adopt- 
ing follies  and  vices  for  which  I  had  no  taste,  out  of  mere  pli- 
ancy and  the  love  of  standing  well  with  my  companions. 
You  see,  I  was  more  guilty  even  then  than  you  have  been,  for 
I  threw  away  all  the  rich  blessings  of  untroubled  youth  and 
health;  I  had  no  excuse  in  my  outward  lot.  But  while  I  was 
at  college  that  event  [in  my  life  occurred,  which  in  the  end 
brought  on  the  state  of  mind  I  have  mentioned  to  you — the 
state  of  self-reproach  and  despair,  which  enables  me  to  under- 
stand to  the  full  what  you  are  suffering ;  and  I  tell  you  the 
facts,  because  I  want  you  to  be  assured  that  I  am  not  uttering 
mere  vague  words  when  I  say  that  I  have  been  raised  from  as 
low  a  depth  of  sin  and  sorrow  as  that  in  which  you  feel  your- 
self to  be.  At  college  I  had  an  attachment  to  a  lovely  girl  of 
seventeen ;  she  was  very  much  below  my  own  station  in  life, 
and  I  never  contemplated  marrying  her ;  but  I  induced  her  to 
leave  her  father's  house.  I  did  not  mean  to  forsake  her  when 
I  left  college,  and  I  quieted  all  scruples  of  conscience  by  prom- 
ising myself  that  I  would  always  take  care  of  poor  Lucy.  But 
on  my  return  from  a  vacation  spent  in  travelling,  I  found  that 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  323 

Lucy  was  gone — gone  away  with  a  gentleman,  her  neighbors 
said.  I  was  a  good  deal  distressed,  but  I  tried  to  persuade 
myself  that  no  harm  would  come  to  her.  Soon  afterward  I 
had  an  illness  which  left  my  health  delicate,  and  made  all  dis- 
sipation distasteful  to  me.  Life  seemed  very  wearisome  and 
empty,  and  I  looked  with  envy  on  every  one  who  had  some 
great  and  absorbing  object — even  on  my  cousin  who  was  pre- 
paring to  go  out  as  a  missionary,  and  whom  I  had  been  used 
to  think  a  dismal,  tedious  person,  because  he  was  constantly 
urging  religious  subjects  upon  me.  We  were  living  in  Lon- 
don then ;  it  was  three  years  since  I  had  lost  sight  of  Lucy ; 
and  one  summer  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  as  I  was  walking 
along  Gower  Street,  I  saw  a  knot  of  people  on  the  causeway 
before  me.  As  I  came  up  to  them,  I  heard  one  woman  say, 
'  I  tell  you  she  is  dead.'  This  awakened  my  interest,  and  I 
pushed  my  way  within  the  circle.  The  body  of  a  woman, 
dressed  in  fine  clothes,  was  lying  against  a  doorstep.  Her 
head  was  bent  on  one  side,  and  the  long  curls  had  fallen  over 
her  cheek.  A  tremor  seized  me  when  I  saw  the  hair :  it  was 
light  chestnut — the  color  of  Lucy's.  I  knelt  down  and  turned 
aside  the  hair ;  it  was  Lucy — dead — with  paint  on  her  cheeks. 
I  found  out  afterward  that  she  had  taken  poison — that  she  was 
in  the  power  of  a  wicked  woman — that  the  very  clothes  on  her 
back  were  not  her  own.  It  was  then  that  my  past  life  burst 
upon  me  in  all  its  hideousuess.  I  wished  I  had  never  been 
born.  I  couldn't  look  into  the  future.  Lucy's  dead  painted 
face  would  follow  me  there,  as  it  did  when  I  looked  back  into 
the  past — as  it  did  when  I  sat  down  to  table  with  my  friends, 
when  I  lay  down  in  my  bed,  and  when  I  rose  up.  There  was 
only  one  thing  that  could  make  life  tolerable  to  me;  that  was, 
to  spend  all  the  rest  of  it  in  trying  to  save  others  from  the 
ruin  I  had  brought  on  one.  But  how  was  that  possible  for 
me?  I  had  no  comfort,  no  strength,  no  wisdom  in  my  own 
soul;  how  could  I  give  them  to  others?  My  mind  was  dark, 
rebellious,  at  war  with  itself  and  with  God." 

Mr.  Tryan  had  been  looking  away  from  Janet.  His  face 
was  toward  the  fire,  and  he  was  absorbed  in  the  images  his 
memory  was  recalling.  But  now  he  turned  his  eyes  on  her, 
and  they  met  hers,  fixed  on  him  with  a  look  of  rapt  expecta- 


324  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

tion,  with  which  one  clinging  to  a  slippery  summit  of  rock, 
while  the  waves  are  rising  higher  and  higher,  watches  the  boat 
that  has  put  from  shore  to  his  rescue. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Dempster,  how  deep  my  need  was.  I  went 
on  in  this  way  for  months.  I  was  convinced  that  if  I  ever  got 
health  and  comfort,  it  must  be  from  religion.  I  went  to  hear 
celebrated  preachers,  and  I  read  religious  books.  But  I  found 
nothing  that  fitted  my  own  need.  The  faith  which  puts  the 
sinner  in  possession  of  salvation  seemed,  as  I  understood  it, 
to  be  quite  out  of  my  reach.  I  had  no  faith ;  I  only  felt  ut- 
terly wretched,  under  the  power  of  habits  and  dispositions 
which  had  wrought  hideous  evil.  At  last,  as  I  told  you,  I 
found  a  friend  to  whom  I  opened  all  my  feelings — to  whom  I 
confessed  everything.  He  was  a  man  who  had  gone  through 
very  deep  experience,  and  could  understand  the  different  wants 
of  different  minds.  He  made  it  clear  to  me  that  the  only 
preparation  for  coming  to  Christ  and  partaking  of  His  salva- 
tion, was  that  very  sense  of  guilt  and  helplessness  which  was 
weighing  me  down.  He  said,  You  are  weary  and  heavy-laden ; 
well,  it  is  you  Christ  invites  to  come  to  Him  and  find  rest. 
He  asks  you  to  cling  to  Him,  to  lean  on  Him ;  He  does  not 
command  you  to  walk  alone  without  stumbling.  He  does  not 
tell  you,  as  your  fellow-men  do,  that  you  must  first  merit  His 
love;  He  neither  condemns  nor  reproaches  you  for  the  past, 
He  only  bids  you  come  to  Him  that  you  may  have  life :  He 
bids  you  stretch  out  your  hands,  and  take  of  the  fulness  of 
His  love.  You  have  only  to  rest  on  Him  as  a  child  rests  on 
its  mother's  arms,  and  you  will  be  upborne  by  His  divine 
strength.  That  is  what  is  meant  by  faith.  Your  evil  habits, 
you  feel,  are  too  strong  for  you;  you  are  unable  to  wrestle 
with  them;  you  know  beforehand  you  shall  fall.  But  when 
once  we  feel  our  helplessness  in  that  way,  and  go  to  the  Sa- 
viour, desiring  to  be  freed  from  the  power  as  well  as  the  pun- 
ishment of  sin,  we  are  no  longer  left  to  our  own  strength. 
As  long  as  we  live  in  rebellion  against  God,  desiring  to  have 
our  own  will,  seeking  happiness  in  the  things  of  this  world,  it 
is  as  if  we  shut  ourselves  up  in  a  crowded  stifling  room,  where 
we  breathe  only  poisoned  air;  but  we  have  only  to  walk  out 
under  the  infinite  heavens,  and  we  breathe  the  pure  free  air 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  32^ 

that  gives  us  health,  and  strength,  and  gladness.  It  is  just  so 
with  God's  spirit:  as  soon  as  we  submit  ourselves  to  His  will, 
as  soon  as  we  desire  to  be  united  to  Him,  and  made  pure  and 
holy,  it  is  as  if  the  walls  had  fallen  down  that  shut  us  out 
from  God,  and  we  are  fed  with  His  spirit,  which  gives  us  new 
strength." 

"  That  is  what  I  want, "  said  Janet ;  "  I  have  left  off  mind- 
ing about  pleasure.  I  think  I  could  be  contented  in  the  midst 
of  hardship,  if  I  felt  that  God  cared  for  me,  and  would  give 
me  strength  to  lead  a  pure  life.  But  tell  me,  did  you  soon 
find  peace  and  strength?  " 

"  Not  perfect  peace  for  a  long  while,  but  hope  and  trust, 
which  is  strength.  No  sense  of  pardon  for  myself  could  do 
away  with  the  pain  I  had  in  thinking  what  I  had  helped  to 
bring  on  another.  My  friend  used  to  urge  upon  me  that  my 
sin  against  God  was  greater  than  my  sin  against  her;  but — it 
may  be  from  want  of  deeper  spiritual  feeling — that  has  re- 
mained to  this  hour  the  sin  which  causes  me  the  bitterest 
pang.  I  could  never  rescue  Lucy;  but  by  God's  blessing  I 
might  rescue  other  weak  and  falling  souls ;  and  that  was  why 
I  entered  the  Church.  I  asked  for  nothing  through  the  rest 
of  my  life  but  that  I  might  be  devoted  to  God's  work,  without 
swerving  in  search  of  pleasure  either  to  the  right  hand  or  to 
the  left.  It  has  been  often  a  hard  struggle — but  God  has  been 
with  me — and  perhaps  it  may  not  last  much  longer." 

Mr.  Tryan  paused.  For  a  moment  he  had  forgotten  Janet, 
and  for  a  moment  she  had  forgotten  her  own  sorrows.  When 
she  recurred  to  herself,  it  was  with  a  new  feeling. 

"  Ah,  what  a  difference  between  our  lives !  you  have  been 
choosing  pain,  and  working,  and  denying  yourself;  and  I  have 
been  thinking  only  of  myself.  I  was  only  angry  and  discon- 
tented because  I  had  pain  to  bear.  You  never  had  that  wicked 
feeling  that  I  have  had  so  often,  did  you?  that  God  was  cruel 
to  send  me  trials  and  temptations  worse  than  others  have. " 

"  Yes,  I  had;  I  had  very  blasphemous  thoughts,  and  I  know 
that  spirit  of  rebellion  must  have  made  the  worst  part  of  your 
lot.  You  did  not  feel  how  impossible  it  is  for  us  to  judge 
rightly  of  God's  dealings,  and  you  opposed  yourself  to  His 
will.  But  what  do  we  know?  We  cannot  foretell  the  work- 


326  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ing  of  the  smallest  event  in  our  own  lot ;  how  can  we  presume 
to  judge  of  things  that  are  so  much  too  high  for  us?  There  is 
nothing  that  becomes  us  but  entire  submission,  perfect  resig- 
nation. As  long  as  we  set  up  our  own  will  and  our  own  wis- 
dom against  God's,  we  make  that  wall  between  us  and  His 
love  which  I  have  spoken  of  just  now.  But  as  soon  as  we  lay 
ourselves  entirely  at  His  feet,  we  have  enough  light  given  us 
to  guide  our  own  steps ;  as  the  foot-sqldier  who  hears  nothing 
of  the  councils  that  determine  the  course  of  the  great  battle 
he  is  in,  hears  plainly  enough  the  word  of  command  which  he 
must  himself  obey.  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know  ib 
is  hard — the  hardest  thing  of  all,  perhaps — to  flesh  and  blood. 
But  carry  that  difficulty  to  the  Saviour  along  with  all  your 
other  sins  and  weaknesses,  and  ask  Him  to  pour  into  you  a 
spirit  of  submission.  He  enters  into  your  struggles;  He  has 
drunk  the  cup  of  our  suffering  to  the  dregs ;  He  knows  the 
hard  wrestling  it  costs  us  to  say,  '  Not  my  will,  but  Thine  be 
done.'  " 

"Pray  with  me,"  said  Janet — "pray  now  that  I  may  have 
light  and  strength." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

BEFORE  leaving  Janet,  Mr.  Tryan  urged  her  strongly  to 
send  for  her  mother. 

"  Do  not  wound  her, "  he  said,  "  by  shutting  her  out  any 
longer  from  your  troubles.  It  is  right  that  you  should  be 
with  her." 

"Yes,  I  will  send  for  her,"  said  Janet.  "But  I  would 
rather  not  go  to  my  mother's  yet,  because  my  husband  is  sure 
to  think  I  am  there,  and  he  might  come  and  fetch  me.  I  can't 
go  back  to  him  ...  at  least,  not  yet.  Ought  I  to  go  back  to 
him?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,  at  present.  Something  should  be  done 
to  secure  you  from  violence.  Your  mother,  I  think,  should 
consult  some  confidential  friend,  some  man  of  character  and 
experience,  who  might  mediate  between  you  and  your  hus- 
band." 


JANET'S   REPENTANCE.  327 

"  Yes,  I  will  send  for  my  mother  directly.  But  I  will  stay 
here,  with  Mrs.  Fettifer,  till  something  has  been  done.  I 
want  no  one  to  know  where  I  am,  except  you.  You  will  come 
again,  will  you  not?  you  will  not  leave  me  to  myself?" 

"  You  will  not  be  left  to  yourself.  God  is  with  you.  If  I 
have  been  able  to  give  you  any  comfort,  it  is  because  His 
power  and  love  have  been  present  with  us.  But  I  am  very 
thankful  that  He  has  chosen  to  work  through  me.  I  shall  see 
you  again  to-morrow — not  before  evening,  for  it  will  be  Sun- 
day, you  know ;  but  after  the  evening  lecture  I  shall  be  at 
liberty.  You  will  be  in  my  prayers  till  then.  In  the  mean 
time,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  open  your  heart  as  much  as  you 
can  to  your  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer.  Cast  away  from  you 
the  pride  that  makes  us  shrink  from  acknowledging  our 
weakness  to  our  friends.  Ask  them  to  help  you  in  guarding 
yourself  from  the  least  approach  of  the  sin  you  most  dread. 
Deprive  yourself  as  far  as  possible  of  the  very  means  and  op- 
portunity of  committing  it.  Every  effort  of  that  kind  made 
in  humility  and  dependence  is  a  prayer.  Promise  me  you  will 
do  this." 

"  Yes,  I  promise  you.  I  know  I  have  always  been  too 
proud;  I  could  never  bear  to  speak  to  any  one  about  myself. 
I  have  been  proud  toward  my  mother,  even;  it  has  always 
made  me  angry  when  she  has  seemed  to  take  notice  of  my 
faults." 

"  Ah,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  you  will  never  say  again  that 
life  is  blank,  and  that  there  is  nothing  to  live  for,  will  you? 
See  what  work  there  is  to  be  done  in  life,  both  in  our  own 
souls  and  for  others.  Surely  it  matters  little  whether  we 
have  more  or  less  of  this  world's  comfort  in  these  short  years, 
when  God  is  training  us  for  the  eternal  enjoyment  of  His  love. 
Keep  that  great  end  of  life  before  you,  and  your  troubles  here 
seem  only  the  small  hardships  of  a  journey.  Now  I 
:.mst  go." 

Mr.  Tryan  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  Janet  took  it  and 
said,  "  God  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  sending  you  to  me. 
I  will  trust  in  Him.  I  will  try  to  do  everything  you  tell  me." 

Blessed  influence  of  one  true  loving  human  soul  on  another ! 
Not  calculable  by  algebra,  not  deducible  by  logic,  but  myste- 


328  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

rious,  effectual,  mighty  as  the  hidden  "process  by  which  the 
tiny  seed  is  quickened,  [and  bursts  forth  into  tall  stem  and 
broad  leaf,  and  glowing  tasselled  flower.  Ideas  are  often  poor 
ghosts;  our  sun-filled  eyes  cannot  discern  them;  they  pass 
athwart  us  in  thin  vapor,  and  cannot  make  themselves  felt. 
But  sometimes  they  are  made  flesh;  they  breathe  upon  us 
with  warm  breath,  they  touch  us  with  soft  responsive  hands, 
they  look  at  us  with  sad  sincere  eyes,  and  speak  to  us  in  ap- 
pealing tones ;  they  are  clothed  in  a  living  human  soul,  with 
all  its  conflicts,  its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then  their  presence 
is  a  power,  then  they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are 
drawn  after  them  with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame  is  drawn  to 
flame. 

Janet's  dark  grand  face,  still  fatigued,  had  become  quite 
calm,  and  looked  up,  as  she  sat,  with  a  humble  childlike  ex- 
pression at  the  thin  blond  face  and  slightly  sunken  gray  eyes 
which  now  shone  with  hectic  brightness.  She  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  image  of  passionate  strength  beaten  and 
worn  with  conflict;  and  he  for  an  image  of  the  self -renounc- 
ing faith  which  has  soothed  that  conflict  into  rest.  As  he 
looked  at  the  sweet  submissive  face,  he  remembered  its  look 
of  despairing  anguish,  and  his  heart  was  very  full  as  he 
turned  away  from  her.  "  Let  me  only  live  to  see  this  work 
confirmed,  and  then  ..." 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  Mr.  Tryan  left,  but  Janet 
was  bent  on  sending  for  her  mother ;  so  Mrs.  Pettif er,  as  the 
readiest  plan,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  herself  to  fetch 
Mrs.  Raynor.  The  mother  had  been  too  long  used  to  expect 
that  every  fresh  week  would  be  more  painful  than  the  last,  for 
Mrs.  Pettifer's  news  to  come  upon  her  with  the  shock  of  a  sur- 
prise. Quietly,  without  any  show  of  distress,  she  made  up  a 
bundle  of  clothes,  and,  telling  her  little  maid  that  she  should 
not  return  home  that  night,  accompanied  Mrs.  Pettif  er  back 
in  silence. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor,  Janet,  wearied  out,  had 
sunk  to  sleep  in  the  large  chair,  which  stood  with  its  back  to 
the  door.  The  noise  of  the  opening  door  disturbed  her,  and 
she  was  looking  round  wonderingly,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  came 
up  to  her  chair,  and  said,  "It's  your  mother,  Janet." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  329 

"  Mother,  dear  mother !  "  Janet  cried,  clasping  her  closely. 
"  I  have  not  been  a  good  tender  child  to  you,  but  I  will  be — 
I  will  not  grieve  you  any  more." 

The  calmness  which  had  withstood  a  new  sorrow  was  over- 
come by  a  new  joy,  and  the  mother  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ON  Sunday  morning  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  Janet,  looking 
out  of  the  bedroom  window,  saw,  above  the  house-tops,  a 
shining  mass  of  white  cloud  rolling  under  the  far-away  blue 
sky.  It  was  going  to  be  a  lovely  April  day.  The  fresh  sky, 
left  clear  and  calm  after  the  long  vexation  of  wind  and  rain, 
mingled  its  ruild  influence  with  Janet's  new  thoughts  and 
prospects.  She  felt  a  buoyant  courage  that  surprised  herself, 
after  the  cold  crushing  weight  of  despondency  which  had  op- 
pressed her  the  day  before :  she  could  think  even  of  her  hus- 
band's rage  without  the  old  overpowering  dread.  For  a  deli- 
cious hope — the  hope  of  purification  and  inward  peace — had 
entered  into  Janet's  soul,  and  made  it  springtime  there  as 
well  as  in  the  outer  world. 

While  her  mother  was  brushing  and  coiling  up  her  thick 
black  hair — a  favorite  task,  because  it  seemed  to  renew  the 
days  of  her  daughter's  girlhood — Janet  told  how  she  came  to 
send  for  Mr.  Tryan,  how  she  had  remembered  their  meeting  at 
Sally  Martin's  in  the  autumn,  and  had  felt  an  irresistible  de- 
sire to  see  him,  and  tell  him  her  sins  and  her  troubles. 

"  I  see  God's  goodness  now,  mother,  in  ordering  it  so  that 
we  should  meet  in  that  way,  to  overcome  my  prejudice  against 
him,  and  make  me  feel  that  he  was  good,  and  then  bringing  it 
back  to  my  mind  in  the  depth  of  my  trouble.  You  know  what 
foolish  things  I  used  to  say  about  him,  knowing  nothing  of 
him  all  the  while.  And  yet  he  was  the  man  who  was  to  give 
me  comfort  and  help  when  everything  else  failed  me.  It  is 
wonderful  how  I  feel  able  to  speak  to  him  as  I  never  have  done 
to  any  one  before;  and  ^how  every  word  he  says  to  me  enters 
my  heart  and  has  a  new  meaning  for  me.  I  think  it  must  be 
because  he  has  felt  life  more  deeply  than  others,  and  has  a 


330  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

deeper  faith.  I  believe  everything  he  says  at  once.  His 
words  corne  to  me  like  rain  on  the  parched  ground.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  before  as  if  I  could  see  behind  people's 
words,  as  one  sees  behind  a  screen ;  but  in  Mr.  Tryan  it  is  his 
very  soul  that  speaks." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  I  love  and  bless  him  for  your  sake, 
if  he  has  given  you  any  comfort.  I  never  believed  the  harm 
people  said  of  him,  though  I  had  no  desire  to  go  and  hear 
him,  for  I  am  contented  with  old-fashioned  ways.  I  find 
more  good  teachings  than  I  can  practise  in  reading  my  Bible 
at  home,  and  hearing  Mr.  Crewe  at  church.  But  your  wants 
are  different,  my  dear,  and  we  are  not  all  led  by  the  same 
road.  That  was  certainly  good  advice  of  Mr.  Tryan's  you 
told  me  of  last  night — that  we  should  consult  some  one  that 
may  interfere  for  you  with  your  husband ;  and  I  have  been 
turning  it  over  in  my  mind  while  I've  been  lying  awake  in 
the  night.  I  think  nobody  will  do  so  well  as  Mr.  Benjamin 
Landor,  for  we  must  have  a  man  that  knows  the  law,  and  that 
Robert  is  rather  afraid  of.  And  perhaps  he  could  bring  about 
an  agreement  for  you  to  live  apart.  Your  husband's  bound  to 
maintain  you,  you  know;  and,  if  you  liked,  we  could  move 
away  from  Milby  and  live  somewhere  else." 

"  Oh,  mother,  we  must  do  nothing  yet ;  I  must  think  about 
it  a  little  longer.  I  have  a  different  feeling  this  morning  from 
what  I  had  yesterday.  Something  seems  to  tell  me  that  I 
must  go  back  to  Robert  some  time — after  a  little  while.  I 
loved  him  once  better  than  all  the  world,  and  I  have  never  had 
any  children  to  love.  There  were  things  in  me  that  were 
wrong,  and  I  should  like  to  make  up  for  them  if  I  can." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  won't  persuade  you.  Think  of  it  a  lit- 
tle longer.  But  something  must  be  done  soon." 

"  How  I  wish  I  had  my  bonnet,  and  shawl,  and  black  gown 
here !  "  said  Janet,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence.  "  I  should 
like  to  go  to  Paddiford  Church  and  hear  Mr.  Try  an.  There 
would  be  no  fear  of  my  meeting  Robert,  for  he  never  goes  out 
on  a  Sunday  morning." 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  go  to  the  house  and 
fetch  your  clothes,"  said  Mrs.  Ray  nor. 

"  Oh  no,  no !     I  must  stay  quietly  here  while  you  two  go  to 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  331 

church.  I  will  be  Mrs.  Pettifer's  maid,  and  get  the  dinuer 
ready  for  her  by  the  time  she  comes  back.  Dear  good  woman ! 
She  was  so  tender  to  me  when  she  took  me,  in  the  night, 
mother,  and  all  the  next  day,  when  I  couldn't  speak  a  word 
to  her  to  thank  her." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  servants  at  Dempster's  felt  some  surprise  when  the 
morning,  noon,  and  evening  of  Saturday  had  passed,  and  still 
their  mistress  did  not  reappear. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  Kitty,  the  housemaid,  as  she  trimmed 
her  next  week's  cap,  while  Betty,  the  middle-aged  cook,  looked 
on  with  folded  arms.  "  Do  you  think  as  Mrs.  Kaynor  was  ill, 
and  sent  for  the  missis  afore  we  was  up?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Betty,  "if  it  had  been  that,  she'd  ha'  been 
back'ards  and  for'ards  three  or  four  times  afore  now;  least- 
ways, she'd  ha'  sent  little  Ann  to  let  us  know." 

"There's  summat  up  more  nor  usal  between  her  an'  the 
master,  that  you  may  depend  on,"  said  Kitty.  "I  know 
those  clothes  as  was  lying  i'  the  drawing-room  yesterday, 
when  the  company  was  come,  meant  summat.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  that  was  what  they've  had  a  fresh  row  about. 
She's  p'raps  gone  away,  an's  made  up  her  mind  not  to  come 
back  again." 

"An'  i'  the  right  on't  too,"  said  Betty.  "I'd  ha'  overrun 
him  long  afore  now,  if  it  had  been  me.  I  wouldn't  stan'  bein' 
mauled  as  she  is  by  no  husband,  not  if  he  was  the  biggest  lord 
i'  the  land.  It's  poor  work  bein'  a  wife  at  that  price:  I'd 
sooner  be  a  cook  wi'out  perkises,  an'  hev  roast,  an'  boil,  an' 
fry,  an'  bake,  all  to  mind  at  once.  She  may  well  do  as  she 
does.  I  know  I'm  glad  enough  of  a  drop  o'  summat  myself 
when  I'm  plagued.  I  feel  very  low,  like,  to-night;  I  think 
I  shall  put  my  beer  i'  the  saucepan  an'  warm  it." 

"What  a  one  you  are  for  warmin'  your  beer,  Betty!  I 
couldn't  abide  it — nasty  bitter  stuff!  " 

"  It's  fine  talkin' ;  if  you  was  a  cook  you'd  know  what  be- 


332  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

longs  to  bein'  a  cook.  It's  none  so  nice  to  hev  a  sinkin'  at 
your  stomach,  I  can  tell  you.  You  wouldn't  think  so  much 
o'  fine  ribbins  i'  your  cap  then." 

"Well,  well,  Betty,  don't  be  grumpy.  Liza  Thomson,  as 
is  at  Phipps's,  said  to  me  last  Sunday,  '  I  wonder  you'll  stay 
at  Dempster' s, '  she  says,  'such  goin's-on  as  there  is.'  But 
I  says,  '  There's  things  to  put  up  wi'  in  ivery  place,  an'  you 
may  change,  an'  change,  an'  not  better  yourself  when  all's 
said  an'  done.'  Lors!  why  Liza  told  me  herself  as  Mrs. 
Phipps  was  as  skinny  as  skinny  i'  the  kitchen,  for  all  they 
keep  so  much  company ;  and  as  for  f ollyers,  she' s  as  cross  as 
a  turkey-cock  if  she  finds  'em  out.  There's  nothin'  o'  that 
sort  i'  the  missis.  How  pretty  she  come  an'  spoke  to  Job  last 
Sunday!  There  isn't  a  good  natur'der  woman  i'  the  world, 
that's  my  belief — an'  handsome  too.  I  al'ys  think  there's 
nobody  looks  half  so  well  as  the  missis  when  she's  got  her  'air 
done  nice.  Lors !  I  wish  I'd  got  long  'air  like  her — my  'air's 
a-comin'  off  dreadful." 

"There'll  be  fine  work  to-morrow,  I  expect,"  said  Betty, 
"when  the  master  comes  home,  an'  Dawes  a-swearin'  as  he'll 
niver  do  a  stroke  o'  work  for  him  again.  It'll  be  good  fun  if 
he  sets  the  justice  on  him  for  cuttin'  him  wi'  the  whip ;  the 
master'll  p'raps  get  his  comb  cut  for  once  in  his  life !  " 

"  Why,  he  was  in  a  temper  like  a  fi-end  this  morning, "  said 
Kitty.  "  I  dare  say  it  was  along  o'  what  had  happened  wi' 
the  missis.  We  shall  hev  a  pretty  house  wi'  him  if  she 
doesn't  come  back — he'll  want  to  be  leatherin'  its,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.  He  must  hev  somethin'  t'  ill-use  when  he's  in  a 
passion. " 

"  I'd  tek  care  he  didn't  leather  me — no,  not  if  he  was  my 
husban'  ten  times  o'er;  I'd  pour  hot  drippin'  on  him  sooner. 
But  the  missis  hasn't  a  sperrit  like  me.  He'll  mek  her  come 
back,  you'll  see;  he'll  come  round  her  somehow.  There's  no 
likelihood  of  her  coming  back  to-night,  though ;  so  I  should 
think  we  might  fasten  the  doors  and  go  to  bed  when  we  like." 

On  Sunday  morning,  however,  Kitty's  mind  became  dis- 
turbed by  more  definite  and  alarming  conjectures  about  her 
mistress.  While  Betty,  encouraged  by  the  prospect  of  un- 
wonted leisure,  was  sitting  down  to  continue  a  letter  which 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  33a 

had  long  lain  unfinished  between  the  leaves  of  her  Bible, 
Kitty  came  running  into  the  kitchen,  and  said — 

"  Lor' !  Betty,  I'm  all  of  a  tremble ;  you  might  knock  me 
down  wi'  a  feather.  I've  just  looked  into  the  missis's  ward- 
robe, an'  there's  both  her  bonnets.  She  must  ha'  gone  wi'out 
her  bonnet.  An'  then  I  remember  as  her  night-clothes 
wasn't  on  the  bed  yesterday  mornin' ;  I  thought  she'd  put  'em 
away  to  be  washed;  but  she  hedn't,  for  I've  been  lookin'. 
It's  my  belief  he's  murdered  her,  and  shut  her  up  i'  that 
closet  as  he  keeps  locked  al'ys.  He's  capible  on't." 

"  Lors-ha' -massy !  why,  you'd  better  run  to  Mrs.  Raynor's 
an'  see  if  she's  there,  after  all.  It  was  p'raps  all  a  lie." 

Mrs.  Raynor  had  returned  home  to  give  directions  to  her 
little  maiden,  when  Kitty,  with  the  elaborate  manifestation  of 
alarm  which  servants  delight  in,  rushed  in  without  knocking, 
and,  holding  her  hands  on  her  heart  as  if  the  consequences  to 
that  organ  were  likely  to  be  very  serious,  said — 

"  If  you  please  'm,  is  the  missis  here?  " 

"  No,  Kitty ;  why  are  you  come  to  ask?  " 

"Because  'm,  she's  niver  been  at  home  since  yesterday 
mornin',  since  afore  we  was  up;  an'  we  thought  somethin' 
must  ha'  happened  to  her." 

"No,  don't  be  frightened,  Kitty.  Your  mistress  is  quite 
safe;  I  know  where  she  is.  Is  your  master  at  home? " 

"No  'm;  he  went  out  yesterday  mornin',  an'  said  he 
shouldn't  be  back  afore  to-night." 

"  Well,  Kitty,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  your  mis- 
tress. You  needn't  say  anything  to  any  one  about  her  being 
away  from  home.  I  shall  call  presently  and  fetch  her  gown 
and  bonnet.  She  wants  them,  to  put  on." 

Kitty,  perceiving  there  was  a  mystery  she  was  not  to  inquire 
into,  returned  to  Orchard  Street,  really  glad  to  know  that  her 
mistress  was  safe,  but  disappointed  nevertheless  at  being  told 
that  she  was  not  to  be  frightened.  She  was  soon  followed  by 
Mrs.  Raynor  in  quest  of  the  gown  and  bonnet.  The  good 
mother,  on  learning  that  Dempster  was  not  at  home,  had  at 
once  thought  that  she  could  gratify  Janet's  wish  to  go  to  Pad- 
diford  Church. 

"See,   my  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  entered  Mrs.  Pettifer's 


334  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

parlor;  "I've  brought  you  your  black  clothes.  Eobert's  not 
at  home,  and  is  not  coming  till  this  evening.  I  couldn't  find 
your  best  black  gown,  but  this  will  do.  I  wouldn't  bring  any- 
thing else,  you  know;  but  there  can't  be  any  objection  to  my 
fetching  clothes  to  cover  you.  You  can  go  to  Paddiford 
Church  now,  if  you  like;  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

"That's  a  dear  mother!  Then  we'll  all  three  go  together. 
Come  and  help  me  to  get  ready.  Good  little  Mrs.  Crewe! 
It  will  vex  her  sadly  that  I  should  go  to  hear  Mr.  Tryan. 
But  I  must  kiss  her,  and  make  it  up  with  her." 

Many  eyes  were  turned  on  Janet  with  a  look  of  surprise  as 
she  walked  up  the  aisle  of  Paddiford  Church.  She  felt  a  lit- 
tle tremor  at  the  notice  she  knew  she  was  exciting,  but  it  was 
a  strong  satisfaction  to  her  that  she  had  been  able  at  once  to 
take  a  step  that  would  let  her  neighbors  know  her  change  of 
feeling  toward  Mr.  Tryan :  she  had  left  herself  now  no  room 
for  proud  reluctance  or  weak  hesitation.  The  walk  through 
the  sweet  spring  air  had  stimulated  all  her  fresh  hopes,  all 
her  yearning  desires  after  purity,  strength,  and  peace.  She 
thought  she  should  find  a  new  meaning  in  the  prayers  this 
morning;  her  full  heart,  like  an  overflowing  river,  wanted 
those  ready-made  channels  to  pour  itself  into ;  and  then  she 
should  hear  Mr.  Tryan  again,  and  his  words  \vould  fall  on  her, 
like  precious  balm,  as  they  had  done  last  night.  There  was  a v 
liquid  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  mere  walls, 
the  pews,  the  weavers  and  colliers  in  their  Sunday  clothes. 
The  commonest  things  seemed  to  touch  the  spring  of  love 
within  her,  just  as,  when  we  are  suddenly  released  from  an 
acute  absorbing  bodily  pain,  our  heart  and  senses  leap  out  in 
new  freedom ;  we  think  even  the  noise  of  streets  harmonious, 
and  are  ready  to  hug  the  tradesman  who  is  wrapping  up  our 
change.  A  door  had  been  opened  in  Janet's  cold  dark  prison 
of  self-despair,  and  the  golden  light  of  morning  was  pouring 
in  its  slanting  beams  through  the  blessed  opening.  There  was 
sunlight  in  the  world;  there  was  a  divine  love  caring  for  her; 
it  had  given  her  an  earnest  of  good  things ;  it  had  been  pre- 
paring comfort  for  her  in  the  very  moment  when  she  had 
thought  herself  most  forsaken. 

Mr.  Tryan  might  well  rejoice  when  his  eye  rested  on  her  as 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  335 

he  entered  his  desk;  but  he  rejoiced  with  trembling.  He 
could  not  look  at  the  sweet  hopeful  face  without  remembering 
its  yesterday's  look  of  agony;  and  there  was  the  possibility 
that  that  look  might  return. 

Janet's  appearance  at  church  was  greeted  not  only  by  won- 
dering eyes,  but  by  kind  hearts,  and  after  the  service  several 
of  Mr.  Tryan'  s  hearers  with  whom  she  had  been  on  cold  terms 
of  late,  contrived  to  come  up  to  her  and  take  her  by  the  hand. 

"Mother,"  said  Miss  Linnet,  "do  let  us  go  and  speak  to 
Mrs.  Dempster.  I'm  sure  there's  a  great  change  in  her  mind 
toward  Mr.  Tryan.  I  noticed  hoAv  eagerly  she  listened  to  the 
sermon,  and  she's  come  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  you  see.  We 
ought  to  go  and  give  her  a  welcome  among  us." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  we've  never  spoke  friendly  these  five  year. 
You  know  she's  been  as  haughty  as  anything  since  I  quarrelled 
with  her  husband.  However,  let  bygones  be  bygones:  I've 
no  grudge  again'  the  poor  thing,  more  particular  as  she  must 
ha'  flew  in  her  husband's  face  to  come  an'  hear  Mr.  Tryan. 
Yes,  let  us  go  an'  speak  to  her." 

The  friendly  words  and  looks  touched  Janet  a  little  too 
keenly,  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  wisely  hurried  her  home  by  the 
least  frequented  road.  When  they  reached  home,  a  violent  fit 
of  weeping,  followed  by  continuous  lassitude,  showed  that  the 
emotions  of  the  morning  had  overstrained  her  nerves.  She 
was  suffering,  too,  from  the  absence  of  the  long-accustomed 
stimulus  which  she  had  promised  Mr.  Tryan  not  to  touch 
again.  The  poor  thing  was  conscious  of  this,  and  dreaded  her 
own  weakness,  as  the  victim  of  intermittent  insanity  dreads 
the  oncoming  of  the  old  illusion. 

"  Mother, "  she  whispered,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  urged  her  to 
lie  down  and  rest  all  the  afternoon,  that  she  might  be  the  bet- 
ter prepared  to  see  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  evening — "mother,  don't 
let  me  have  anything  if  I  ask  for  it." 

In  the  mother's  mind  there  was  the  same  anxiety,  and  in 
her  it  was  mingled  with  another  fear — the  fear  lest  Janet,  in 
her  present  excited  state  of  mind,  should  take  some  premature 
step  in  relation  to  her  husband,  which  might  lead  back  to  all 
the  former  troubles.  The  hint  she  had  thrown  out  in  the 
morning  of  her  wish  to  return  to  him  after  a  time,  showed  a 


336  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LITE. 

new  eagerness  for  difficult  duties,  that  only  made  the  long- 
saddened  sober  mother  tremble. 

But  as  evening  approached,  Janet's  morning  heroism  all 
forsook  her :  her  imagination,  influenced  by  physical  depres- 
sion as  well  as  by  mental  habits,  was  haunted  by  the  vision  of 
her  husband's  return  home,  and  she  began  to  shudder  with  the 
yesterday's  dread.  She  heard  him  calling  her,  she  saw  him 
going  to  her  mother's  to  look  for  her,  she  felt  sure  he  would 
find  her  out,  and  burst  in  upon  her. 

"Pray,  pray,  don't  leave  me,  don't  go  to  church,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  You  and  mother  both  stay  with  me  till 
Mr.  Tryan  conies." 

At  twenty  minutes  past  six  the  church  bells  were  ringing 
for  the  evening  service,  and  soon  the  congregation  was  stream- 
ing along  Orchard  Street  in  the  mellow  sunset.  The  street 
opened  toward  the  west.  The  red  half-sunken  sun  shed  a  sol- 
emn splendor  on  the  every-day  houses,  and  crimsoned  the 
windows  of  Dempster's  projecting  upper  story. 

Suddenly  a  loud  murmur  arose  and  spread  along  the  stream 
of  church-goers,  and  one  group  after  another  paused  and 
looked  backward.  At  the  far  end  of  the  street,  men,  accom- 
panied by  a  miscellaneous  group  of  onlookers,  were  slowly 
carrying  something — a  body  stretched  on  a  door.  Slowly  they 
passed  along  the  middle  of  the  street,  lined  all  the  way  with 
awe-struck  faces,  till  they  turned  aside  and  paused  in  the  red 
sunlight  before  Dempster's  door. 

It  was  Dempster's  body.  No  one  knew  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

IT  was  probably  a  hard  saying  to  the  Pharisees,  that  "  there 
is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,  than 
over  ninety-and-nine  just  persons  that  need  no  repentance." 
And  certain  ingenious  philosophers  of  our  own  day  must  surely 
take  offence  at  a  joy  so  entirely  out  of  correspondence  with 
arithmetical  proportion.  But  a  heart  that  has  been  taught 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  337 

by  its  own  sore  struggles  to  bleed  for  the  woes  of  another — 
that  has  "  learned  pity  through  suffering  " — is  likely  to  find 
very  imperfect  satisfaction  in  the  "balance  of  happiness," 
"  doctrine  of  compensations, "  and  other  short  and  easy  methods 
of  obtaining  thorough  complacency  in  the  presence  of  pain ; 
and  for  such  a  heart  that  saying  will  not  be  altogether  dark. 
The  emotions,  I  have  observed,  are  but  slightly  influenced  by 
arithmetical  considerations :  the  mother,  when  her  sweet  lisp- 
ing little  ones  have  all  been  taken  from  her  one  after  another, 
and  she  is  hanging  over  her  last  dead  babe,  finds  small  con- 
solation in  the  fact  that  the  tiny  dimpled  corpse  is  but 
one  of  a  necessary  average,  and  that  a  thousand  other  babes 
brought  into  the  world  at  the  same  time  are  doing  well, 
and  are  likely  to  live;  and  if  you  stood  beside  that  mother — 
if  you  knew  her  pang  and  shared  it — it  is  probable  you 
would  be  equally  unable  to  see  a  ground  of  complacency  in 
statistics. 

Doubtless  a  complacency  resting  on  that  basis  is  highly 
rational ;  but  emotion,  I  fear,  is  obstinately  irrational :  it  in- 
sists on  caring  for  individuals ;  it  absolutely  refuses  to  adopt 
the  quantitative  view  of  human  anguish,  and  to  admit  that 
thirteen  happy  lives  are  a  set-off  against  tAvelve  miserable 
lives,  which  leaves  a  clear  balance  on  the  side  of  satisfaction. 
This  is  the  inherent  imbecility  of  feeling,  and  one  must  be  a 
great  philosopher  to  have  got  quite  clear  of  all  that,  and  to 
have  emerged  into  the  serene  air  of  pure  intellect,  in  which  it 
is  evident  that  individuals  really  exist  for  no  other  purpose 
than  that  abstractions  may  be  drawn  from  them — abstractions 
that  may  rise  from  heaps  of  ruined  lives  like  the  sweet  savor 
of  a  sacrifice  in  the  nostrils  of  philosophers,  and  of  a  philo- 
sophic Deity.  And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  for  the  man  who 
knows  sympathy  because  he  has  known  sorrow,  that  old,  old 
saying  about  the  joy  of  angels  over  the  repentant  sinner  out- 
weighing their  joy  over  the  ninety-nine  just,  has  a  meaning 
which  does  not  jar  with  the  language  of  his  own  heart.  It 
only  tells  him,  that  for  angels  too  there  is  a  transcendent  value 
in  human  pain,  which  refuses  to  be  settled  by  equations;  that 
the  eyes  of  angels  too  are  turned  away  from  the  serene  happi- 
ness of  the  righteous  to  bend  with  yearning  pity  on  the  poor 


338  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

erring  soul  wandering  in  the  desert  where  no  water  is;  that 
for  angels  too  the  misery  of  one  casts  so  tremendous  a  shadow 
as  to  eclipse  the  bliss  of  ninety-nine. 

Mr.  Tryan  had  gone  through  the  initiation  of  suffering :  it 
is  no  wonder,  then,  that  Janet' s  restoration  was  the  work  that 
lay  nearest  his  heart;  and  that,  weary  as  he  was  in  body 
when  he  entered  the  vestry  after  the  evening  service,  he  was 
impatient  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  seeing  her.  His  experience 
enabled  him  to  divine — what  was  the  fact — that  the  hopeful- 
ness of  the  morning  would  be  followed  by  a  return  of  depres- 
sion and  discouragement;  and  his  sense  of  the  inward  and 
outward  difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  restoration  was  so  keen, 
that  he  could  only  find  relief  from  the  foreboding  it  excited 
by  lifting  up  his  heart  in  prayer.  There  are  unseen  elements 
which  often  frustrate  our  wisest  calculations — which  raise  up 
the  sufferer  from  the  edge  of  the  grave,  contradicting  the 
prophecies  of  the  clear-sighted  physician,  and  fulfilling  the 
blind  clinging  hopes  of  affection ;  such  unseen  elements  Mr. 
Tryan  called  the  Divine  Will,  and  filled  up  the  margin  of 
ignorance  which  surrounds  all  our  knowledge  with  the  feelings 
of  trust  and  resignation.  Perhaps  the  profoundest  philosophy 
could  hardly  fill  it  up  better. 

His  mind  was  occupied  in  this  way  as  he  was  absently  tak- 
ing off  his  gown,  when  Mr.  Landor  startled  him  by  entering 
the  vestry  and  asking  abruptly — 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  about  Dempster?  " 
"No,"  said  Mr.  Tryan,  anxiously;  "what  is  it?" 
"  He  has  been  thrown  out  of  his  gig  in  the  Bridge  Way, 
and  he  was  taken  up  for  dead.  They  were  carrying  him  home 
as  we  were  coming  to  church,  and  I  stayed  behind  to  see  what 
I  could  do.  I  went  in  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Dempster,  and  prepare 
her  a  little,  but  she  was  not  at  home.  Dempster  is  not  dead, 
however;  he  was  stunned  with  the  fall.  Pilgrim  came  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  he  says  the  right  leg  is  broken  in  two  places. 
It's  likely  to  be  a  terrible  case,  with  his  state  of  body.  It 
seems  he  was  more  drunk  than  usual,  and  they  say  he  came 
along  the  Bridge  Way  flogging  his  horse  like  a  madman,  till 
at  last  it  gave  a  sudden  wheel,  and  he  was  pitched  out.  The 
servants  said  they  didn't  know  where  Mrs.  Dempster  was :  she 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  339 

had  been  away  from  home  since  yesterday  morning ;  but  Mrs. 
Ray  nor  knew." 

"  I  know  where  she  is, "  said  Mr.  Tryan ;  "  but  I  think  it 
will  be  better  for  her  not  to  be  told  of  this  just  yet." 

"  Ah,  that  was  what  Pilgrim  said,  and  so  I  didn't  go  round 
to  Mrs.  Raynor's.  He  said  it  would  be  all  the  better  if  Mrs. 
Dempster  could  be  kept  out  of  the  house  for  the  present. 
Do  you  know  if  anything  new  has  happened  between  Dempster 
and  his  wife  lately?  I  was  surprised  to  hear  of  her  being  at 
Paddiford  Church  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  something  has  happened ;  but  I  believe  she  is  anxious 
that  the  particulars  of  his  behavior  toward  her  should  not  be 
known.  She  is  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's — there  is  no  reason  for  con- 
cealing that,  since  what  has  happened  to  her  husband;  and 
yesterday,  when  she  was  in  very  deep  trouble,  she  sent  for 
me.  I  was  very  thankful  she  did  so :  I  believe  a  great  change 
of  feeling  has  begun  in  her.  But  she  is  at  present  in  that  ex- 
citable state  of  mind — she  has  been  shaken  by  so  many  painful 
emotions  during  the  last  two  days,  that  I  think  it  would  be 
better,  for  this  evening  at  least,  to  guard  her  from  a  new 
shock,  if  possible.  But  I  am  going  now  to  call  upon  her,  and 
I  shall  see  how  she  is." 

"  Mr.  Tryan, "  said  Mr.  Jerome,  who  had  entered  during  the 
dialogue,  and  had  been  standing  by,  listening  with  a  distressed 
face,  "  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'll  let  me  know  if  iver 
there's  any  thing  I  can  do  for  Mrs.  Dempster.  Eh,  dear,  what 
a  world  this  is!  I  think  I  see  'em fifteen  year  ago — as  happy 
a  young  couple  as  iver  was;  and  now,  what  it's  all  come  to! 
I  was  in  a  hurry,  like,  to  punish  Dempster  for  pessecutin', 
but  there  was  a  stronger  hand  at  work  nor  mine." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Jerome;  but  don't  let  us  rejoice  in  punishment, 
even  when  the  hand  of  God  alone  inflicts  it.  The  best  of  us 
are  but  poor  wretches  just  saved  from  shipwreck:  can  we  feel 
anything  but  awe  and  pity  when  we  see  a  fellow-passenger 
swallowed  by  the  waves?" 

"Right,  right,  Mr.  Tryan.  I'm  over  hot  and  hasty,  that 
I  am.  But  I  beg  on  you  to  tell  Mrs.  Dempster — I  mean,  in 
course,  when  you've  an  opportunity — tell  her  she's  a  friend 
at  the  White  House  as  she  may  send  for  any  hour  o'  the  day." 


340  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  have  an  opportunity,  I  dare  say,  and  I  will 
remember  your  wish.  I  think, "  continued  Mr.  Tryan,  turning 
to  Mr.  Landor,  "  I  had  better  see  Mr.  Pilgrim  on  my  way,  and 
learn  what  is  exactly  the  state  of  things  by  this  time.  What 
do  you  think?  " 

"  By  all  means :  if  Mrs.  Dempster  is  to  know,  there's  no  one 
can  break  the  news  to  her  so  well  as  you.  I'll  walk  with 
you  to  Dempster's  door.  I  dare  say  Pilgrim  is  there  still. 
Come,  Mr.  Jerome,  you've  got  to  go  our  way  too,  to  fetch 
your  horse." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  in  the  passage  giving  some  directions  to 
his  assistant,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  Mr.  Tryan  enter. 
They  shook  hands;  for  Mr.  Pilgrim,  never  having  joined  the 
party  of  the  Anti-Tryanites,  had  no  ground  for  resisting  the 
growing  conviction,  that  the  Evangelical  curate  was  really  a 
good  fellow,  though  he  was  a  fool  for  not  taking  better  care  of 
himself. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  in  your  old  enemy's  quar- 
ters," he  said  to  Mr.  Tryan.  "However,  it  will  be  a  good 
while  before  poor  Dempster  shows  any  fight  again." 

"I  came  on  Mrs.  Dempster's  account,"  said  Mr.  Tryan. 
"  She  is  staying  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's ;  she  has  had  a  great  shock 
from  some  severe  domestic  trouble  lately,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  wise  to  defer  telling  her  of  this  dreadful  event  for  a  short 
time." 

"Why,  what  has  been  up,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose 
curiosity  was  at  once  awakened.  "  She  used  to  be  no  friend 
of  yours.  Has  there  been  some  split  between  them?  It's  a 
new  thing  for  her  to  turn  round  on  him." 

"  Oh,  merely  an  exaggeration  of  scenes  that  must  often  have 
happened  before.  But  the  question  now  is,  whether  you  think 
there  is  any  immediate  danger  of  her  husband's  death;  for  in 
that  case,  I  think,  from  what  I  have  observed  of  her  feelings, 
she  would  be  pained  afterward  to  have  been  kept  in  ignorance." 

"Well,  there's  no  telling  in  these  cases,  you  know.  I  don't 
apprehend  speedy  death,  and  it  is  not  absolutely  impossible 
that  we  may  bring  him  round  again.  At  present  he's  in  a 
state  of  apoplectic  stupor;  but  if  that  subsides,  delirium  is 
almost  sure  to  supervene,  and  we  shall  have  some  painful 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  341 

scenes.  It's  one  of  those  complicated  cases  in  which  the  de- 
lirium is  likely  to  be  of  the  worst  kind — meningitis  and  de- 
lirium tremens  together — and  we  may  have  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  with  him.  If  Mrs.  Dempster  were  told,  I  should  say 
it  would  be  desirable  to  persuade  her  to  remain  out  of  the 
house  at  present.  She  could  do  no  good,  you  know.  I've  got 
nurses. " 

"  Thank  you, "  said  Mr.  Tryan.  "  That  is  what  I  wanted 
to  know.  Good-by." 

AVhen  Mrs.  Pettifer  opened  the  door  for  Mr.  Tryan,  he  told 
her  in  a  few  words  what  had  happened,  and  begged  her  to 
take  an  opportunity  of  letting  Mrs.  Raynor  know,  that  they 
might,  if  possible,  concur  in  preventing  a  premature  or  sudden 
disclosure  of  the  event  to  Janet. 

"Poor  thing!  "  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  She's  not  fit  to  hear 
any  bad  news;  she's  very  low  this  evening — worn  out  with 
feeling;  and  she's  not  had  anything  to  keep  her  up,  as  she's 
been  used  to.  She  seems  frightened  at  the  thought  of  being 
tempted  to  take  it." 

"Thank  God  for  it;  that  fear  is  her  greatest  security." 

When  Mr.  Tryan  entered  the  parlor  this  time,  Janet  was 
again  awaiting  him  eagerly,  and  her  pale  sad  face  was  lighted 
up  with  a  smile  as  she  rose  to  meet  him.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment she  said,  with  a  look  of  anxiety — 

"  How  very  ill  and  tired  you  look !  You  have  been  working 
so  hard  all  day,  and  yet  you  are  come  to  talk  to  me.  Oh, 
you  are  wearing  yourself  out.  I  must  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Petti- 
fer to  come  and  make  you  have  some  supper.  But  this  is  my 
mother;  you  have  not  seen  her  before,  I  think." 

While  Mr.  Tryan  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Raynor,  Janet  hur- 
ried out,  and  he,  seeing  that  this  good-natured  thoughtfulness 
on  his  behalf  would  help  to  counteract  her  depression,  was 
not  inclined  to  oppose  her  wash,  but  accepted  the  supper  Mrs. 
Pettifer  offered  him,  quietly  talking  the  while  about  a  cloth- 
ing club  he  was  going  to  establish  in  Paddiford,  and  the  want 
of  provident  habits  among  the  poor. 

Presently,  however,  Mrs.  Raynor  said  she  must  go  home  for 
an  hour,  to  see  how  her  little  maiden  was  going  on,  and  Mrs. 
Pettifer  left  the  room  with  her  to  take  the  opportunity  of  tell- 


342  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ing  her  what  had  happened  to  Dempster.  When  Janet  was 
left  alone  with  Mr.  Tryan,  she  said — 

"  I  feel  so  uncertain  what  to  do  about  my  husband.  I  am 
so  weak — my  feelings  change  so  from  hour  to  hour.  This 
morning,  when  I  felt  so  hopeful  and  happy,  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  go  back  to  him,  and  try  to  make  up  for  what  has  been 
wrong  in  me.  I  thought,  now  God  would  help  me,  and  I 
should  have  you  to  teach  and  advise  me,  and  I  could  bear  the 
troubles  that  would  come.  But  since  then — all  this  afternoon 
and  evening — I  have  had  the  same  feelings  I  used  to  have, 
the  same  dread  of  his  anger  and  cruelty,  and  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  should  never  be  able  to  bear  it  without  falling  into  the 
same  sins,  and  doing  just  what  I  did  before.  Yet,  if  it  were 
settled  that  I  should  live  apart  from  him,  I  know  it  would 
always  be  a  load  on  my  mind  that  I  had  shut  myself  out  from 
going  back  to  him.  It  seems  a  dreadful  thing  in  life,  when 
any  one  has  been  so  near  to  one  as  a  husband  for  fifteen  years, 
to  part  and  be  nothing  to  each  other  any  more.  Surely  that 
is  a  very  strong  tie,  and  I  feel  as  if  my  duty  can  never  lie 
quite  away  from  it.  It  is  very  difficult  to  know  what  to  do : 
what  ought  I  do?" 

"  I  think  it  will  be  well  not  to  take  any  decisive  step  yet. 
Wait  until  your  mind  is  calmer.  You  might  remain  with 
your  mother  for  a  little  while ;  I  thing  you  have  no  real  ground 
for  fearing  any  annoyance  from  your  husband  at  present;  he 
has  put  himself  too  much  in  the  wrong ;  he  will  very  likely 
leave  you  unmolested  for  some  time.  Dismiss  this  difficult 
question  from  your  rnind  just  now,  if  you  can.  Every  new 
day  may  bring  you  new  grounds  for  decision,  and  what  is 
most  needful  for  your  health  of  mind  is  repose  from  that 
haunting  anxiety  about  the  future  which  has  been  preying  on 
you.  Cast  yourself  on  God,  and  trust  that  He  will  direct  you; 
He  will  make  your  duty  clear  to  you,  if  you  wait  submissively 
on  Him." 

"  Yes ;  I  will  wait  a  little,  as  you  tell  me.  I  will  go  to  my 
mother's  to-morrow,  and  pray  to  be  guided  rightly.  You  will 
pray  for  me,  too." 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  343 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE  next  morning  Janet  was  so  much  calmer,  and  at  break- 
fast spoke  so  decidedly  of  going  to  her  mother's,  that  Mrs. 
Pettifer  and  Mrs.  Raynor  agreed  it  would  be  wise  to  let  her 
know  by  degrees  what  had  befallen  her  husband,  since  as  soon 
as  she  went  out  there  would  be  danger  of  her  meeting  some 
one  who  would  betray  the  fact.  But  Mrs.  Raynor  thought  it 
would  be  well  first  to  call  at  Dempster's,  and  ascertain  how 
he  was :  so  she  said  to  Janet — 

"  My  dear,  I'll  go  home  first,  and  see  to  things,  and  get 
your  room  ready.  You  needn't  come  yet,  you  know.  I  shall 
be  back  again  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  we  can  go  together." 

"  Oh  no, "  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  "  Stay  with  me  till  evening. 
I  shall  be  lost  without  you.  You  needn't  go  till  quite  even- 
ing." 

Janet  had  dipped  into  the  "  Life  of  Henry  Martyn, "  which 
Mrs.  Pettifer  had  from  the  Paddiford  Lending  Library,  and 
her  interest  was  so  arrested  by  that  pathetic  missionary  story, 
that  she  readily  acquiesced  in  both  propositions,  and  Mrs. 
Raynor  set  out. 

She  had  been  gone  more  than  an  hour,  and  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock,  when  Janet  put  down  her  book;  and  after  sit- 
ting meditatively  for  some  minutes  with  her  eyes  uncon- 
sciously fixed  on  the  opposite  wall,  she  rose,  went  to  her  bed- 
room, and,  hastily  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  came 
down  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  who  was  busy  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Mrs.  Pettifer, "  she  said,  "  tell  mother,  when  she  comes 
back,  I'm  gone  to  see  what  has  become  of  those  poor  Lakins 
in  Butcher  Lane.  I  know  they're  half  starving,  and  I've 
neglected  them  so,  lately.  And  then,  I  think,  I'll  go  on  to 
Mrs.  Crewe.  I  want  to  see  the  dear  little  woman,  and  tell 
her  myself  about  my  going  to  hear  Mr.  Tryan.  She  won't 
feel  it  half  so  much  if  I  tell  her  myself. " 

"  Won't  you  wait  till  your  mother  comes,  or  put  it  off  till 
to-morrow?"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  alarmed.  "You'll  hardly 
be  back  in  time  for  dinner,  if  you  get  talking  to  Mrs.  Crewe. 


344  SCENES   OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

And  you'll  have  to  pass  by  your  husband's,  you  know;  and 
yesterday,  you  were  so  afraid  of  seeing  him." 

"Oh,  Robert  will  be  shut  up  at  the  office  now,  if  he's  not 
gone  out  of  the  town.  I  must  go — I  feel  I  must  be  doing 
something  for  some  one — not  be  a  mere  useless  log  any  longer. 
I've  been  reading  about  that  wonderful  Henry  Martyn;  he's 
just  like  Mr.  Tryan — wearing  himself  out  for  other  people, 
and  I  sit  thinking  of  nothing  but  myself.  I  must  go.  Good- 
by;  I  shall  be  back  soon." 

She  ran  off  before  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  utter  another  word 
of  dissuasion,  leaving  the  good  woman  in  considerable  anxiety 
lest  this  new  impulse  of  Janet's  should  frustrate  all  precau- 
tions to  save  her  from  a  sudden  shock. 

Janet  having  paid  her  visit  in  Butcher  Lane,  turned  again 
into  Orchard  Street  on  her  way  to  Mrs.  Crewe's,  and  was 
thinking,  rather  sadly,  that  her  mother's  economical  house- 
keeping would  leave  no  abundant  surplus  to  be  sent  to  the 
hungry  Lakins,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Pilgrim  in  advance  of  her 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  was  walking  at  a  rapid 
pace,  and  when  he  reached  Dempster's  door  he  turned  and 
entered  without  knocking. 

Janet  was  startled.  Mr.  Pilgrim  would  never  enter  in  that 
way  unless  there  were  some  one  very  ill  in  the  house.  It  was 
her  husband ;  she  felt  certain  of  it  at  once.  Something  had 
happened  to  him.  Without  a  moment's  pause,  she  ran  across 
the  street,  opened  the  door,  and  entered.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  passage.  The  dining-room  door  was  wide  open — no  one 
was  there.  Mr.  Pilgrim,  then,  was  already  upstairs.  She 
rushed  up  at  once  to  Dempster's  room — her  own  room.  The 
door  was  open,  and  she  paused  in  pale  horror  at  the  sight  be- 
fore her,  which  seemed  to  stand  out  only  with  the  more  ap- 
palling distinctness  because  the  noonday  light  was  darkened 
to  twilight  in  the  chamber. 

Two  strong  nurses  were  using  their  utmost  force  to  hold 
Dempster  in  bed,  while  the  medical  assistant  was  applying  a 
sponge  to  his  head,  and  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  busy  adjusting  some 
apparatus  in  the  background.  Dempster's  face  was  purple 
and  swollen,  his  eyes  dilated,  and  fixed  with  a  look  of  dire 
terror  on  something  he  seemed  to  see  approaching  him  from 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  345 

the  iron  closet.  He  trembled  violently,  and  struggled  as  if  to 
jump  out  of  bed. 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  he  said  in  a  loud,  hoarse  whisper; 
"she's  coming  .  .  ,  she's  cold  .  .  .  she's  dead  .  .  .  she'll 
strangle  me  with  her  black  hair.  Ah !  "  he  shrieked  aloud, 
"her  hair  is  all  serpents  .  .  .  they're  black  serpents  .  .  . 
they  hiss  .  .  .  they  hiss  ...  let  me  go  ...  let  me  go  ... 
she  wants  to  drag  me  with  her  cold  arms  .  .  .  her  arms  are 
serpents  .  .  .  they  are  great  white  serpents  .  .  .  they'll 
twine  round  me  .  .  .  she  wants  to  drag  me  into  the  cold 
water  .  .  .  her  bosom  is  cold  ...  it  is  black  ...  it  is  all 
serpents  ..." 

"  No,  Robert, "  Janet  cried,  in  tones  of  yearning  pity,  rush- 
ing to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  toward 
him,  "no,  here  is  Janet.  She  is  not  dead — she  forgives  you." 

Dempster's  maddened  senses  seemed  to  receive  some  new 
impression  from  her  appearance.  The  terror  gave  way  to  rage. 

"Ha!  you  sneaking  hypocrite!  "  he  burst  out  in  a  grating 
voice,  "  you  threaten  me  .  .  .  you  mean  to  have  your  revenge 
on  me,  do  you?  Do  your  worst!  I've  got  the  law  on  my 
side  ...  I  know  the  law  .  .  .  I'll  hunt  you  down  like  a 
hare  .  .  .  prove  it  ...  prove  that  I  was  tampered  with  .  .  . 
prove  that  I  took  the  money  .  .  .  prove  it  ...  you  can  prove 
nothing  .  .  .  you  damned  psalm-singing  maggots!  I'll  make 
a  fire  under  you,  and  smoke  off  the  whole  pack  of  you  .  .  . 
I'll  sweep  you  up  ...  I'll  grind  you  to  powder  .  .  .  small 
powder  .  .  .  (here  his  voice  dropped  to  a  low  tone  of  shud- 
dering disgust)  .  .  .  powder  on  the  bed-clothes  .  .  .  running 
about  .  .  .  black  lice  .  .  .  they  are  coming  in  swarms  .  .  . 
Janet !  come  and  take  them  away  .  .  .  curse  you !  why  don't 
you  come?  Janet!  " 

Poor  Janet  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  She  almost  wished  her  worst  moment  back 
again  rather  than  this.  It  seemed  as  if  her  husband  was  al- 
ready imprisoned  in  misery,  and  she  could  not  reach  him — his 
ear  deaf  forever  to  the  sounds  of  love  and  forgiveness.  His 
sins  had  made  a  hard  crust  round  his  soul ;  her  pitying  voice 
could  not  pierce  it. 

"Not  there,  isn't  she?"    he  went  on  in  a  defiant  tone. 


346  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  where  she  is?  I'll  have  every  drop  of 
yellow  blood  out  of  your  veins  if  you  come  questioning  me. 
Your  blood  is  yellow  ...  in  your  purse  .  .  .  running  out  of 
your  purse  .  .  .  What!  you're  changing  it  into  toads,  are 
you?  They're  crawling  .  .  .  they're  flying  .  .  .  they're 
flying  about  my  head  .  .  .  the  toads  are  flying  about.  Ostler ! 
ostler!  bring  out  my  gig  .  .  .  bring  it  out,  you  lazy  beast 
...  ha!  you'll  follow  me,  will  you?  .  .  .  you'll  fly  about 
my  head  .  .  .  you've  got  fiery  tongues  .  .  .  Ostler!  curse 
you!  why  don't  you  come?  Janet!  come  and  take  the  toads 
away  .  .  .  Janet ! " 

This  last  time  he  uttered  her  name  with  such  a  shriek  of 
terror,  that  Janet  involuntarily  started  up  from  her  knees,  and 
stood  as  if  petrified  by  the  horrible  vibration.  Dempster 
stared  wildly  in  silence  for  some  moments;  then  he  spoke 
again  in  a  hoarse  whisper — 

"  Dead  ...  is  she  dead?  She  did  it,  then.  She  buried 
herself  in  the  iron  chest  .  .  .  she  left  her  clothes  out,  though 
.  .  .  she  isn't  dead  .  .  .  why  do  you  pretend  she's  dead? 
.  .  .  she's  coming  .  .  .  she's  coming  out  of  the  iron  closet 
.  .  .  there  are  the  black  serpents  .  .  .  stop  her  ...  let  me 
go  ...  stop  her  .  .  .  she  wants  to  drag  me  away  into  the 
cold  black  water  .  .  .  her  bosom  is  black  ...  it  is  all  ser- 
pents .  .  .  they  are  getting  longer  .  .  .  the  great  white  ser- 
pents are  getting  longer  ..." 

Here  Mr.  Pilgrim  came  forward  with  the  apparatus  to  bind 
him,  but  Dempster's  struggles  became  more  and  more  violent. 
"  Ostler !  ostler !  "  he  shouted,  "  bring  out  the  gig  .  .  .  give 
me  the  whip !  " — and  bursting  loose  from  the  strong  hands 
that  held  him,  he  began  to  flog  the  bed-clothes  furiousty  with 
his  right  arm. 

"Get  along,  you  lame  brute! — so — sc — sc!  that's  it!  there 
you  go!  They  think  they've  outwitted  me,  do  they?  The 
sneaking  idiots!  I'll  be  up  with  them  by  and  by.  I'll  make 
them  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  backward  .  .  .  I'll  pepper  them 
so  that  the  devil  shall  eat  them  raw  .  .  .  sc — sc — sc — we  shall 
see  who'll  be  the  winner  yet  .  .  .  get  along,  you  damned 
limping  beast  .  .  .  I'll  lay  your  back  open  .  .  .  I'll  ..." 

He  raised  himself  with  a  stronger  effort  than  ever  to  flog 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  347 

the  bed-clothes,  and  fell  back  in  convulsions.  Janet  gave  a 
scream,  and  sank  on  her  knees  again.  She  thought  he  was 
dead. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  able  to  give  her  a  moment's  at- 
tention, he  came  to  her,  and,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  attempted 
to  draw  her  gently  out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  let  me  persuade  you  not  to 
remain  in  the  room  at  present.  We  shall  soon  relieve  these 
symptoms,  I  hope ;  it  is  nothing  but  the  delirium  that  ordi- 
narily attends  such  cases." 

"Oh,  what  is  the  matter?  what  brought  it  on?" 

"  He  fell  out  of  the  gig ;  the  right  leg  is  broken.  It  is  a 
terrible  accident,  and  I  don't  disguise  that  there  is  consider- 
able danger  attending  it,  owing  to  the  state  of  the  brain.  But 
Mr.  Dempster  has  a  strong  constitution,  you  know;  in  a  few 
days  these  symptoms  may  be  allayed,  and  he  may  do  well. 
Let  me  beg  of  you  to  keep  out  of  the  room  at  present :  you 
can  do  no  good  until  Mr.  Dempster  is  better,  and  able  to  know 
you.  But  you  ought  not  to  be  alone;  let  me  advise  you  to 
have  Mrs.  Raynor  with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  will  send  for  mother.  But  you  must  not  object  to 
my  being  in  the  room.  I  shall  be  very  quiet  now,  only  just 
at  first  the  shock  was  so  great;  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  I 
can  help  the  nurses  a  great  deal;  I  can  put  the  cold  things  to 
his  head.  He  may  be  sensible  for  a  moment  and  know  me. 
Pray  do  not  say  any  more  against  it :  my  heart  is  set  on  being 
with  him." 

Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  way,  and  Janet,  having  sent  for  her 
mother  and  put  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  returned  to  take  her 
place  by  the  side  of  her  husband's  bed. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

DAY  after  day,  with  only  short  intervals  of  rest,  Janet  kept 
her  place  in  that  sad  chamber.  No  wonder  the  sick-room  and 
the  lazaretto  have  so  often  been  a  refuge  from  the  tossings  of 
intellectual  doubt — a  place  of  repose  for  the  worn  and  wounded 


348  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

spirit.  Here  is  a  duty  about  which  all  creeds  and  all  phi- 
losophies are  at  one :  here,  at  least,  the  conscience  will  not  be 
dogged  by  doubt,  the  benign  impulse  will  not  be  checked  by 
adverse  theory :  here  you  may  begin  to  act  without  settling 
one  preliminary  question.  To  moisten  the  sufferer's  parched 
lips  through  the  long  night-watches,  to  bear  up  the  drooping 
head,  to  lift  the  helpless  limbs,  to  divine  the  want  that  can 
find  no  utterance  beyond  the  feeble  motion  of  the  hand  or 
beseeching  glance  of  the  eye — these  are  offices  that  demand  no 
self-questionings,  no  casuistry,  no  assent  to  propositions,  no 
weighing  of  consequences.  Within  the  four  walls  where  the 
stir  and  glare  of  the  world  are  shut  out,  and  every  voice  is 
subdued — where  a  human  being  lies  prostrate,  thrown  on  the 
tender  mercies  of  his  fellow — the  moral  relation  of  man  to  man 
is  reduced  to  its  utmost  clearness  and  simplicity:  bigotry 
cannot  confuse  it,  theory  cannot  pervert  it,  passion,  awed  into 
quiescence,  can  neither  pollute  nor  perturb  it.  As  we  bend 
over  the  sick-bed,  all  the  forces  of  our  nature  rush  toward  the 
channels  of  pity,  of  patience,  and  of  love,  and  sweep  down 
the  miserable  choking  drift  of  our  quarrels,  our  debates,  our 
would-be  wisdom,  and  our  clamorous  selfish  desires.  This 
blessing  of  serene  freedom  from  the  importunities  of  opinion 
lies  in  all  simple  direct  acts  of  mercy,  and  is  one  source  of 
that  sweet  calm  which  is  often  felt  by  the  watcher  in  the  sick- 
room, even  when  the  duties  there  are  of  a  hard  and  terrible 
kind. 

Something  of  that  benign  result  was  felt  by  Janet  during  her 
tendance  in  her  husband's  chamber.  When  the  first  heart- 
piercing  hours  were  over — when  her  horror  at  his  delirium 
was  no  longer  fresh — she  began  to  be  conscious  of  her  relief 
from  the  burthen  of  decision  as  to  her  future  course.  The 
question  that  agitated  her,  about  returning  to  her  husband, 
had  been  solved  in  a  moment ;  and  this  illness,  after  all,  might 
be  the  herald  of  another  blessing,  just  as  that  dreadful  mid- 
night when  she  stood  an  outcast  in  cold  and  darkness  had  been 
followed  by  the  dawn  of  a  new  hope.  Robert  would  get  bet- 
ter ;  this  illness  might  alter  him ;  he  would  be  a  long  time 
feeble,  needing  help,  walking  with  a  crutch,  perhaps.  She 
would  wait  on  him  with  such  tenderness,  such  all-forgiving 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  349 

love,  that  the  old  harshness  and  cruelty  must  melt  away  for- 
ever under  the  heart-sunshine  she  would  pour  around  him. 
Her  bosom  heaved  at  the  thought,  and  delicious  tears  fell. 
Janet's  was  a  nature  in  which  hatred  and  revenge  could  find 
no  place ;  the  long  bitter  years  drew  half  their  bitterness  from 
her  ever-living  remembrance  of  the  too  short  years  of  love  that 
went  before ;  and  the  thought  that  her  husband  would  ever 
put  her  hand  to  his  lips  again,  and  recall  the  days  when  they 
sat  on  the  grass  together,  and  he  laid  scarlet  poppies  on  her 
black  hair,  and  called  her  his  gypsy  queen,  seemed  to  send  a 
tide  of  loving  oblivion  over  all  the  harsh  and  stony  space  they 
had  traversed  since.  The  Divine  Love  that  had  already  shone 
upon  her  would  be  with  her ;  she  would  lift  up  her  soul  con- 
tinually for  help ;  Mr.  Tryan,  she  knew,  would  pray  for  her. 
If  she  felt  herself  failing,  she  would  confess  it  to  him  at  once; 
if  her  feet  began  to  slip,  there  was  that  stay  for  her  to  cling 
to.  Oh,  she  could  never  be  drawn  back  into  that  cold  damp 
vault  of  sin  and  despair  again ;  she  had  felt  the  morning  sun, 
she  had  tasted  the  sweet  pure  air  of  trust  and  penitence  and 
submission. 

These  were  the  thoughts  passing  through  Janet's  mind  as 
she  hovered  about  her  husband's  bed,  and  these  were  the  hopes 
she  poured  out  to  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  called  to  see  her.  It 
was  so  evident  that  they  were  strengthening  her  in  her  new 
struggle — they  shed  such  a  glow  of  calm  enthusiasm  over  her 
face  as  she  spoke  of  them — that  Mr.  Tryan  could  not  bear  to 
throw  on  them  the  chill  of  premonitory  doubts,  though  a  pre- 
vious conversation  he  had  had  with  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  convinced 
him  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  probability  of  Dempster's 
recovery.  Poor  Janet  did  not  know  the  significance  of  the 
changing  symptoms,  and  when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  week,  the 
delirium  began  to  lose  some  of  its  violence,  and  to  be  inter- 
rupted by  longer  and  longer  intervals  of  stupor,  she  tried  to 
think  that  these  might  be  steps  on  the  way  to  recovery,  and 
she  shrank  from  questioning  Mr.  Pilgrim  lest  he  should  con- 
firm the  fears  that  began  to  get  predominance  in  her  mind. 
But  before  many  days  were  past,  he  thought  it  right  not  to 
allow  her  to  blind  herself  any  longer.  One  day — it  was  just 
about  noon,  when  bad  news  always  seems  most  sickening — he 


350  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

led  her  from  her  husband's  chamber  into  the  opposite  drawing- 
room,  where  Mrs.  Raynor  was  sitting,  and  said  to  her,  in  that 
low  tone  of  sympathetic  feeling  which  sometimes  gave  a  sud- 
den air  of  gentleness  to  this  rough  man — 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  it  is  right  in  these  cases,  you 
know,  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  I  think  I  shall  be  saving 
you  pain  by  preventing  you  from  entertaining  any  false  hopes, 
and  Mr.  Dempster's  state  is  now  such  that  I  fear  we  must 
consider  recovery  impossible.  The  affection  of  the  brain 
might  not  have  been  hopeless,  but,  you  see,  there  is  a  terrible 
complication ;  and  I  am  grieved  to  say  the  broken  limb  is 
mortifying. " 

Janet  listened  with  a  sinking  heart.  That  future  of  love 
and  forgiveness  would  never  come,  then :  he  was  going  out  of 
her  sight  forever,  where  her  pity  could  never  reach  him.  She 
turned  cold,  and  trembled. 

"  But  do  you  think  he  will  die, "  she  said,  "  without  ever 
coming  to  himself?  without  ever  knowing  me?" 

"  One  cannot  say  that  with  certainty.  It  is  not  impossible 
that  the  cerebral  oppression  may  subside,  and  that  he  may 
become  conscious.  If  there  is  anything  you  would  wish  to  be 
said  or  done  in  that  case,  it  would  be  well  to  be  prepared.  I 
should  think, "  Mr.  Pilgrim  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Raynor, 
"Mr.  Dempster's  affairs  are  likely  to  be  in  order — his  will 
is  ..." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  him  troubled  about  those  things," 
interrupted  Janet,  "  he  has  no  relations  but  quite  distant  ones 
— no  one  but  me.  I  wouldn't  take  up  the  time  with  that.  I 
only  want  to  .  .  ." 

She  was  unable  to  finish ;  she  felt  her  sobs  rising,  and  left 
the  room.  "0  God,"  she  said,  inwardly,  "is  not  Thy  love 
greater  than  mine?  Have  mercy  on  him!  have  mercy  on 
him!" 

This  happened  on  Wednesday,  ten  days  after  the  fatal  ac- 
cident. By  the  following  Sunday,  Dempster  was  in  a  state  of 
rapidly  increasing  prostration ;  and  when  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who, 
in  turn  with  his  assistant,  had  slept  in  the  house  from  the 
beginning,  came  in,  about  half-past  ten,  as  usual,  he  scarcely 
believed  that  the  feebly  struggling  life  would  last  out  till 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  351 

morning.  For  the  last  few  days  he  had  been  administering 
stimulants  to  relieve  the  exhaustion  which  had  succeeded  the 
alternations  of  delirium  and  stupor.  This  slight  office  was  all 
that  now  remained  to  be  done  for  the  patient;  so  at  eleven 
o'clock  Mr.  Pilgrim  went  to  bed,  having  given  directions  to 
the  nurse,  and  desired  her  to  call  him  if  any  change  took 
place,  or  if  Mrs.  Dempster  desired  his  presence. 

Janet  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  room.  She  was 
yearning  and  watching  for  a  moment  in  which  her  husband's 
eyes  would  rest  consciously  upon  her,  and  he  would  know 
that  she  had  forgiven  him. 

How  changed  he  was  since  that  terrible  Monday,  nearly  a 
fortnight  ago!  He  lay  motionless,  but  for  the  irregular 
breathing  that  stirred  his  broad  chest  and  thick  muscular  neck. 
His  features  were  no  longer  purple  and  swollen;  they  were 
pale,  sunken,  and  haggard.  A  cold  perspiration  stood  in  beads 
on  the  protuberant  forehead,  and  on  the  wasted  hands 
stretched  motionless  on  the  bed-clothes.  It  was  better  to  see 
the  hands  so,  than  convulsively  picking  the  air,  as  they  had 
been  a  week  ago. 

Janet  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  through  the  long  hours  of 
candle-light,  watching  the  unconscious  half-closed  eyes,  wip- 
ing the  perspiration  from  the  brow  and  cheeks,  and  keeping 
her  left  hand  on  the  cold  unanswering  right  hand  that  lay  be- 
side her  on  the  bed-clothes.  She  was  almost  as  pale  as  her 
dying  husband,  and  there  were  dark  lines  under  her  eyes,  for 
this  was  the  third  night  since  she  had  taken  off  her  clothes ; 
but  the  eager  straining  gaze  of  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  acute 
sensibility  that  lay  in  every  line  about  her  mouth,  made  a 
strange  contrast  with  the  blank  unconsciousness  and  emaciated 
animalism  of  the  face  she  was  watching. 

There  was  profound  stillness  in  the  house.  She  heard  no 
sound  but  her  husband's  breathing  and  the  ticking  of  the 
watch  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  candle,  placed  high  up,  shed 
a  soft  light  down  on  the  one  object  she  cared  to  see.  There 
was  a  smell  of  brandy  in  the  room ;  it  was  given  to  her  hus- 
band from  time  to  time;  but  this  smell,  which  at  first  had 
produced  in  her  a  faint  shuddering  sensation,  was  now  becom- 
ing indifferent  to  her :  she  did  not  even  perceive  it ;  she  was 


352  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

too  unconscious  of  herself  to  feel  either  temptations  or  accu- 
sations. She  only  felt  that  the  husband  of  her  youth  was 
dying;  far,  far  out  of  her  reach,  as  if  she  were  standing  help- 
less on  the  shore,  while  he  was  sinking  in  the  black  storm- 
waves  ;  she  only  yearned  for  one  moment  in  which  she  might 
satisfy  the  deep  forgiving  pity  of  her  soul  by  one  look  of  love, 
one  word  of  tenderness. 

Her  sensations  and  thoughts  were  so  persistent  that  she 
could  not  measure  the  hours,  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  her  when 
the  nurse  put  out  the  candle,  and  let  in  the  faint  morning 
light.  Mrs.  Raynor,  anxious  about  Janet,  was  already  up,  and 
now  brought  in  some  fresh  coffee  for  her;  and  Mr.  Pilgrim 
having  awaked,  had  hurried  on  his  clothes,  and  was  come  in 
to  see  how  Dempster  was. 

This  change  from  candle-light  to  morning,  this  recommence- 
ment of  the  same  round  of  things  that  had  happened  yester- 
day, was  a  discouragement  rather  than  a  relief  to  Janet.  She 
was  more  conscious  of  her  chill  weariness;  the  new  light 
thrown  on  her  husband's  face  seemed  to  reveal  the  still  work 
that  death  had  been  doing  through  the  night ;  she  felt  her  last 
lingering  hope  that  he  would  ever  know  her  again  forsake  her. 

But  now,  Mr.  Pilgrim,  having  felt  the  pulse,  was  putting 
some  brandy  in  a  teaspoon  between  Dempster's  lips;  the 
brandy  went  down,  and  his  breathing  became  freer.  Janet 
noticed  the  change,  and  her  heart  beat  faster  as  she  leaned 
forward  to  watch  him.  Suddenly  a  slight  movement,  like  the 
passing  away  of  a  shadow,  was  visible  in  his  face,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  full  on  Janet. 

It  was  almost  like  meeting  him  again  on  the  resurrection 
morning,  after  the  night  of  the  grave. 

"  Robert,  do  you  know  me?  " 

He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  there  was  a  faintly  per- 
ceptible motion  of  the  lips,  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak. 

But  the  moment  of  speech  was  forever  gone — the  moment 
for  asking  pardon  of  her,  if  he  wanted  to  ask  it.  Could  he 
read  the  full  forgiveness  that  was  written  in  her  eyes?  She 
never  knew ;  for,  as  she  was  bending  to  kiss  him,  the  thick 
veil  of  death  fell  between  them,  and  her  lips  touched  a  corpse. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  353 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  faces  looked  very  hard  and  unmoved  that  surrounded 
Dempster's  grave,  while  old  Mr.  Crewe  read  the  burial-service 
in  his  low,  broken  voice.  The  pall-bearers  were  such  men  as 
Mr.  Pittmau,  Mr.  Lowme,  and  Mr.  Budd — men  whom  Demp- 
ster had  called  his  friends  while  he  was  in  life;  and  worldly 
faces  never  look  so  worldly  as  at  a  funeral.  They  have  the 
same  effect  of  grating  incongruity  as  the  sound  of  a  coarse 
voice  breaking  the  solemn  silence  of  night. 

The  one  face  that  had  sorrow  in  it  was  covered  by  a  thick 
crape-veil,  and  the  sorrow  was  suppressed  and  silent.  No  one 
knew  how  deep  it  was ;  for  the  thought  in  most  of  her  neigh- 
bors' minds  was,  that  Mrs.  Dempster  could  hardly  have  had 
better  fortune  than  to  lose  a  bad  husband  who  had  left  her  the 
compensation  of  a  good  income.  They  found  it  difficult  to 
conceive  that  her  husband's  death  could  be  felt  by  her  other- 
wise than  as  a  deliverance.  The  person  who  was  most  thor- 
oughly convinced  that  Janet's  grief  was  deep  and  real,  was 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  in  general  was  not  at  all  weakly  given  to  a 
belief  in  disinterested  feeling. 

"  That  woman  has  a  tender  heart, "  he  was  frequently  heard 
to  observe  in  his  morning  rounds  about  this  time.  "  I  used  to 
think  there  was  a  great  deal  of  palaver  in  her,  but  you  may 
depend  upon  it  there's  no  pretence  about  her.  If  he'd  been 
the  kindest  husband  in  the  world  she  couldn't  have  felt  more. 
There's  a  great  deal  of  good  in  Mrs.  Dempster — a  great  deal 
of  good." 

"  /always  said  so,"  was  Mrs.  Lowme's  reply,  when  he  made 
the  observation  to  her ;  "  she  was  always  so  very  full  of  pretty 
attentions  to  me  when  I  was  ill.  But  they  tell  me  now  she's 
turned  Tryanite;  if  that's  it  we  sha'n't  agree  again.  It's 
very  inconsistent  in  her,  I  think,  turning  round  in  that  way, 
after  being  the  foremost  to  laugh  at  the  Tryanite  cant,  and 
especially  in  a  woman  of  her  habits ;  she  should  cure  herself 
of  them  before  she  pretends  to  be  over-religious." 

"Well,  I  think  she  means  to  cure  herself,  do  you  know," 


354  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  good-will  toward  Janet  was  just  now 
quite  above  that  temperate  point  at  which  he  could  indulge 
his  feminine  patients  with  a  little  judicious  detraction.  "  I 
feel  sure  she  has  not  taken  any  stimulants  all  through  her 
husband's  illness;  and  she  has  been  constantly  in  the  way  of 
them.  I  can  see  she  sometimes  suffers  a  good  deal  of  depres- 
sion for  want  of  them — it  shows  all  the  more  resolution  in  her. 
Those  cures  are  rare;  but  I've  known  them  happen  sometimes 
with  people  of  strong  will." 

Mrs.  Lowme  took  an  opportunity  of  retailing  Mr.  Pilgrim's 
conversation  to  Mrs.  Phipps,  who,  as  a  victim  of  Pratt  and 
plethora,  could  rarely  enjoy  that  pleasure  at  first-hand.  Mrs. 
Phipps  was  a  woman  of  decided  opinions,  though  of  wheezy 
utterance. 

"For  my  part,"  she  remarked,  "I'm  glad  to  hear  there's 
any  likelihood  of  improvement  in  Mrs.  Dempster,  but  I  think 
the  way  things  have  turned  out  seems  to  show  that  she  was 
more  to  blame  than  people  thought  she  was ;  else,  why  should 
she  feel  so  much  about  her  husband?  And  Dempster,  I  under- 
stand, has  left  his  wife  pretty  nearly  all  his  property  to  do  as 
she  likes  with;  that  isn't  behaving  like  such  a  very  bad  hus- 
band. I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Dempster  can  have  had  so  much 
provocation  as  they  pretended.  I've  known  husbands  who've 
laid  plans  for  tormenting  their  wives  when  they're  under- 
ground— tying  up  their  money  and  hindering  them  from  mar- 
rying again.  Not  that  /  should  ever  wish  to  marry  again ;  I 
think  one  husband  in  one's  life  is  enough  in  all  conscience"; 
— here  she  threw  a  fiery  glance  at  the  amiable  Mr.  Phipps, 
who  was  innocently  delighting  himself  with  the  facetice  in  the 
Rotherly  Guardian,  and  thinking  the  editor  must  be  a  droll 
fellow — "but  it's  aggravating  to  be  tied  up  in  that  way. 
Why,  they  say  Mrs.  Dempster  will  have  as  good  as  six  hun- 
dred a  year  at  least.  A  fine  thing  for  her,  that  was  a  poor 
girl  without  a  farthing  to  her  fortune.  It's  well  if  she  doesn't 
make  ducks  and  drakes  of  it  somehow." 

Mrs.  Phipps' s  view  of  Janet,  however,  was  far  from  being 
the  prevalent  one  in  Milby.  Even  neighbors  who  had  no 
strong  personal  interest  in  her,  could  hardly  see  the  noble- 
looking  woman  in  her  widow's  dress,  with  a  sad  sweet  gravity 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  355 

in  her  face,  and  not  be  touched  with  fresh  admiration  for  her 
— and  not  feel,  at  least  vaguely,  that  she  had  entered  on  a 
new  life  iu  which  it  was  a  sort  of  desecration  to  allude  to  the 
painful  past.  And  the  old  friends  who  had  a  real  regard  for 
her,  but  whose  cordiality  had  been  repelled  or  chilled  of  late 
years,  now  came  round  her  with  hearty  demonstrations  of 
affection.  Mr.  Jerome  felt  that  his  happiness  had  a  substan- 
tial addition  now  he  could  once  more  call  on  that  "  nice  little 
woman  Mrs.  Dempster,"  and  think  of  her  with  rejoicing  in- 
stead of  sorrow.  The  Pratts  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  the 
footing  of  old-established  friendship  with  Janet  and  her 
mother ;  and  Miss  Pratt  felt  it  incumbent  on  her,  on  all  suit- 
able occasions,  to  deliver  a  very  emphatic  approval  of  the  re- 
markable strength  of  mind  she  understood  Mrs.  Dempster  to 
be  exhibiting.  The  Miss  Linnets  were  eager  to  meet  Mr. 
Tryan's  wishes  by  greeting  Janet  as  one  who  was  likely  to  be 
a  sister  in  religious  feeling  and  good  works ;  and  Mrs.  Linnet 
was  so  agreeably  surprised  by  the  fact  that  Dempster  had  left 
his  wife  the  money  "  in  that  handsome  way,  to  do  what  she 
liked  with  it,"  that  she  even  included  Dempster  himself,  and 
his  villanous  discovery  of  the  flaw  in  her  title  to  Pye's  Croft, 
in  her  magnanimous  oblivion  of  past  offences.  She  and  Mrs. 
Jerome  agreed  over  a  friendly  cup  of  tea  that  there  were  "  a 
many  husbands  as  was  very  fine  spoken  an'  all  that,  an'  yet 
all  the  while  kep'  a  will  locked  up  from  you,  as  tied  you  up 
as  tight  as  anything.  I  assure  you,"  Mrs.  Jerome  continued, 
dropping  her  voice  in  a  confidential  manner,  "I  know  no 
more  to  this  day  about  Mr.  Jerome's  will,  nor  the  child  as  is 
unborn.  I've  no  fears  about  a  income — I'm  well  aware  Mr. 
Jerome  'ud  niver  leave  me  stret  for  that ;  but  I  should  like  to 
hev  a  thousand  or  two  at  my  own  disposial ;  it  makes  a  widow 
a  deal  more  looked  on." 

Perhaps  this  ground  of  respect  to  widows  might  not  be  en- 
tirely without  its  influence  on  the  Milby  mind,  and  might  do 
something  toward  conciliating  those  more  aristocratic  acquaint- 
ances of  Janet's,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  inclined  to 
take  the  severest  view  of  her  apostasy  toward  Evangelicalism. 
Errors  look  so  very  ugly  in  persons  of  small  means — one  feels 
they  are  taking  quite  a  liberty  in  going  astray,  whereas  peo- 


356  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

pie  of  fortune  may  naturally  indulge  in  a  few  delinquencies. 
"They've  got  the  money  for  it,"  as  the  girl  said  of  her  mis- 
tress who  had  made  herself  ill  with  pickled  salmon.  How- 
ever it  may  have  been,  there  was  not  an  acquaintance  of  Ja- 
net's, in  Milby,  that  did  not  offer  her  civilities  in  the  early 
days  of  her  widowhood.  Even  the  severe  Mrs.  Phipps  was 
not  an  exception;  for  heaven  knows  what  would  become  of 
our  sociality  if  we  never  visited  people  we  speak  ill  of:  we 
should  live,  like  Egyptian  hermits,  in  crowded  solitude. 

Perhaps  the  attentions  most  grateful  to  Janet  were  those  of 
her  old  friend  Mrs.  Crewe,  whose  attachment  to  her  favorite 
proved  quite  too  strong  for  any  resentment  she  might  be  sup- 
posed to  feel  on  the  score  of  Mr.  Tryan.  The  little  deaf  old 
lady  couldn't  do  without  her  accustomed  visitor,  whom  she 
had  seen  grow  up  from  child  to  woman,  always  so  willing  to 
chat  with  her  and  tell  her  all  the  news,  though  she  was  deaf; 
while  other  people  thought  it  tiresome  to  shout  in  her  ear, 
and  irritated  her  by  recommending  ear-trumpets  of  various 
construction. 

All  this  friendliness  was  very  precious  to  Janet.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  aid  it  gave  her  in  the  self-conquest  which  was 
the  blessing  she  prayed  for  with  every  fresh  morning.  The 
chief  strength  of  her  nature  lay  in  her  affection,  which  colored 
all  the  rest  of  her  mind :  it  gave  a  personal  sisterly  tenderness 
to  her  acts  of  benevolence ;  it  made  her  cling  with  tenacity  to 
every  object  that  had  once  stirred  her  kindly  emotions.  Alas! 
it  was  unsatisfied,  wounded  affection  that  had  made  her  trouble 
greater  than  she  could  bear.  And  now  there  was  no  check  to 
the  full  flow  of  that  plenteous  current  in  her  nature — no  gnaw- 
ing secret  anguish — no  overhanging  terror — no  inward  shame. 
Friendly  faces  beamed  on  her;  she  felt  that  friendly  hearts 
were  approving  her,  and  wishing  her  well,  and  that  mild  sun- 
shine of  good-will  fell  beneficently  on  her  new  hopes  and 
efforts,  as  the  clear  shining  after  rain  falls  on  the  tender  leaf- 
buds  of  spring,  and  wins  them  from  promise  to  fulfilment. 

And  she  needed  these  secondary  helps,  for  her  wrestling 
with  her  past  self  was  not  always  easy.  The  strong  emotions 
from  which  the  life  of  a  human  being  receives  a  new  bias,  win 
their  victory  as  the  sea  wins  his :  though  their  advance  may 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  357 

be  sure,  they  will  often,  after  a  mightier  wave  than  usual, 
seem  to  roll  back  so  far  as  to  lose  all  the  ground  they  had 
made.  Janet  showed  the  strong  bent  of  her  will  by  taking 
every  outward  precaution  against  the  occurrence  of  a  tempta- 
tion. Her  mother  was  now  her  constant  companion,  having 
shut  up  her  little  dwelling  and  come  to  reside  in  Orchard 
Street ;  and  Janet  gave  all  dangerous  keys  into  her  keeping, 
entreating  her  to  lock  them  away  in  some  secret  place.  When- 
ever the  too  well-known  depression  and  craving  threatened 
her,  she  would  seek  a  refuge  in  what  had  always  been  her 
purest  enjoyment — in  visiting  one  of  her  poor  neighbors,  in 
carrying  some  food  or  comfort  to  a  sick-bed,  in  cheering  with 
her  smile  some  of  the  familiar  dwellings  up  the  dingy  back 
lanes.  But  the  great  source  of  courage,  the  great  help  to  per- 
severance, was  the  sense  that  she  had  a  friend  and  teacher  in 
Mr.  Tryan:  she  could  confess  her  difficulties  to  him;  she 
knew  he  prayed  for  her ;  she  had  always  before  her  the  pros- 
pect of  soon  seeing  him,  and  hearing  words  of  admonition  and 
comfort,  that  came  to  her  charged  with  a  divine  power  such 
as  she  had  never  found  in  human  words  before. 

So  the  time  passed,  till  it  was  far  on  in  May,  nearly  a 
month  after  her  husband's  death,  when,  as  she  and  her  mother 
were  seated  peacefully  at  breakfast  in  the  dining-room,  look- 
ing through  the  open  window  at  the  old-fashioned  garden, 
where  the  grass-plot  was  now  whitened  with  apple-blossoms, 
a  letter  was  brought  in  for  Mrs.  Raynor. 

"  Why,  there's  the  Thurston  post-mark  on  it, "  she  said.  "  It 
must  be  about  your  Aunt  Anna.  Ah,  so  it  is,  poor  thing! 
she's  been  taken  worse  this  last  day  or  two,  and  has  asked 
them  to  send  for  me.  That  dropsy  is  carrying  her  off  at  last, 
I  dare  say.  Poor  thing!  it  will  be  a  happy  release.  I  must 
go,  my  dear — she's  your  father's  last  sister — though  I  am 
sorry  to  leave  you.  However,  perhaps  I  shall  not  have  to 
stay  more  than  a  night  or  two." 

Janet  looked  distressed  as  she  said,  "  Yes,  you  must  go, 
mother.  But  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you.  I 
think  I  shall  run  in  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  ask  her  to  come  and 
stay  with  me  while  you're  away.  I'm  sure  she  will." 

At  twelve  o'clock,  Janet,  having  seen  her  mother  in  the 


358  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

coach  that  was  to  carry  her  to  Thurston,  called,  on  her  way 
back,  at  Mrs.  Pettifer's,  but  found,  to  her  great  disappoint- 
ment, that  her  old  friend  was  gone  out  for  the  day.  So  she 
wrote  on  a  leaf  of  her  pocket-book  an  urgent  request  that  Mrs. 
Pettifer  would  come  and  stay  with  her  while  her  mother  was 
away ;  and,  desiring  the  servant-girl  to  give  it  to  her  mistress 
as  soon  as  she  came  home,  walked  on  to  the  Vicarage  to  sit 
with  Mrs.  Crewe,  thinking  to  relieve  in  this  way  the  feeling  of 
desolateness  and  undefined  fear  that  was  taking  possession  of 
her  on  being  left  alone  for  the  first  time  since  that  great  crisis 
in  her  life.  And  Mrs.  Crewe,  too,  was  not  at  home ! 

Janet,  with  a  sense  of  discouragement  for  which  she  re- 
buked herself  as  childish,  walked  sadly  home  again ;  and  when 
she  entered  the  vacant  dining-room,  she  could  not  help  burst- 
ing into  tears.  It  is  such  vague  undefinable  states  of  suscep- 
tibility as  this — states  of  excitement  or  depression,  half  men- 
tal, half  physical — that  determine  many  a  tragedy  in  women's 
lives.  Janet  could  scarcely  eat  anything  at  her  solitary  din- 
ner: she  tried  to  fix  her  attention  on  a  book  in  vain;  she 
walked  about  the  garden,  and  felt  the  very  sunshine  melan- 
choly. 

Between  four  and  five  o'clock,  old  Mr.  Pittman  called,  and 
joined  her  in  the  garden,  where  she  had  been  sitting  for  some 
time  under  one  of  the  great  apple-trees,  thinking  how  Robert, 
in  his  best  moods,  used  to  take  little  Mamsey  to  look  at  the 
cucumbers,  or  to  see  the  Alderney  cow  with  its  calf  in  the 
paddock.  The  tears  and  sobs  had  come  again  at  these 
thoughts ;  and  when  Mr.  Pittman  approached  her,  she  was 
feeling  languid  and  exhausted.  But  the  old  gentleman's  sight 
and  sensibility  were  obtuse,  and,  to  Janet's  satisfaction,  he 
showed  no  consciousness  that  she  was  in  grief. 

"  I  have  a  task  to  impose  upon  you,  Mrs.  Dempster, "  he 
said,  with  a  certain  toothless  pomposity  habitual  to  him :  "  I 
want  you  to  look  over  those  letters  again  in  Dempster's  bureau, 
and  see  if  you  can  find  one  from  Poole  about  the  mortgage  on 
those  houses  at  Dingley.  It  will  be  worth  twenty  pounds,  if 
you  can  find  it;  and  I  don't  know  where  it  can  be,  if  it  isn't 
among  those  letters  in  the  bureau.  I've  looked  everywhere  at 
the  office  for  it.  I'm  going  home  now,  but  I'll  call  again 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  359 

to-morrow,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  look  in  the  mean 
time." 

Janet  said  she  would  look  directly,  and  turned  with  Mr. 
Pittman  into  the  house.  But  the  search  would  take  her  some 
time,  so  he  bade  her  good-by,  and  she  went  at  once  to  a  bu- 
reau which  stood  in  a  small  back  room,  where  Dempster  used 
sometimes  to  write  letters  and  receive  people  who  came  on 
business  out  of  office  hours.  She  had  looked  through  the  con- 
tents of  the  bureau  more  than  once ;  but  to-day,  on  removing 
the  last  bundle  of  letters  from  one  of  the  compartments,  she 
saw  what  she  had  never  seen  before,  a  small  nick  in  the  wood, 
made  in  the  shape  of  a  thumb-nail,  evidently  intended  as  a 
means  of  pushing  aside  the  movable  back  of  the  compartment. 
In  her  examination  hitherto  she  had  not  found  such  a  letter  as 
Mr.  1'ittmaii  had  described — perhaps  there  might  be  more 
letters  behind  this  slide.  She  pushed  it  back  at  once,  and 
saw — no  letters,  but  a  small  spirit-decanter,  half  full  of  pale 
brandy,  Dempster's  habitual  drink. 

An  impetuous  desire  shook  Janet  through  all  her  members ; 
it  seemed  to  master  her  with  the  inevitable  force  of  strong 
fumes  that  flood  our  senses  before  we  are  aware.  Her  hand 
was  on  the  decanter ;  pale  and  excited,  she  was  lifting  it  out 
of  its  niche,  when,  with  a  start  and  a  shudder,  she  dashed  it 
to  the  ground,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  odor  of  the 
spirit.  Without  staying  to  shut  up  the  bureau,  she  rushed 
out  of  the  room,  snatched  up  her  bonnet  and  mantle  which  lay 
in  the  dining-room,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Where  should  she  go?  In  what  place  would  this  demon 
that  had  re-entered  her  be  scared  back  again?  She  walked 
rapidly  along  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  church.  She 
was  soon  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard ;  she  passed  through  it, 
ami  made  her  way  across  the  graves  to  a  spot  she  knew — a 
spot  where  the  turf  had  been  stirred  not  long  before,  where  a 
tomb  was  to  be  erected  soon.  It  was  very  near  the  church 
wall,  on  the  side  which  now  lay  in  deep  shadow,  quite  shut 
out  from  the  rays  of  the  westering  sun  by  a  projecting  but- 
tress. 

Janet  sat  down  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  sombre  spot.  A 
thick  hedge,  surmounted  by  elm-trees,  was  in  front  of  her;  a 


360  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

projecting  buttress  on  each  side.  But  she  wanted  to  shut  out 
even  these  objects.  Her  thick  crape  veil  was  down ;  but  she 
closed  her  eyes  behind  it,  and  pressed  her  hands  upon  them. 
She  wanted  to  summon  up  the  vision  of  the  past;  she  wanted 
to  lash  the  demon  out  of  her  soul  with  the  stinging  memories 
of  the  bygone  misery ;  she  wanted  to  renew  the  old  horror  and 
the  old  anguish,  that  she  might  throw  herself  with  the  more 
desperate  clinging  energy  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  where  the 
Divine  Sufferer  would  impart  divine  strength.  She  tried  to 
recall  those  first  bitter  moments  of  shame,  which  were  like  the 
shuddering  discovery  of  the  leper  that  the  dire  taint  is  upon 
him;  the  deeper  and  deeper  lapse;  the  on-coming  of  settled 
despair;  the  awful  moments  by  the  bedside  of  her  self-mad- 
dened husband.  And  then  she  tried  to  live  through,  with  a 
remembrance  made  more  vivid  by  that  contrast,  the  blessed 
hours  of  hope  and  joy  and  peace  that  had  come  to  her  of  late, 
since  her  whole  soul  had  been  bent  toward  the  attainment  of 
purity  and  holiness. 

But  now,  when  the  paroxysm  of  temptation  was  past,  dread 
and  despondency  began  to  thrust  themselves,  like  cold  heavy 
mists,  between  her  and  the  heaven  to  which  she  wanted  to 
look  for  light  and  guidance.  The  temptation  would  come 
again — that  rush  of  desire  might  overmaster  her  the  next  time 
— she  would  slip  back  again  into  that  deep  slimy  pit  from 
which  she  had  once  been  rescued,  and  there  might  be  no  de- 
liverance for  her  more.  Her  prayers  did  not  help  her,  for 
fear  predominated  over  trust;  she  had  no  confidence  that  the 
aid  she  sought  would  be  given ;  the  idea  of  her  future  fall  had 
grasped  her  mind  too  strongly.  Alone,  in  this  way,  she  was 
powerless.  If  she  could  see  Mr.  Tryan,  if  she  could  confess 
all  to  him,  she  might  gather  hope  again.  She  must  see  him ; 
she  must  go  to  him. 

Janet  rose  from  the  ground,  and  walked  away  with  a  quick 
resolved  step.  She  had  been  seated  there  a  long  while,  and 
the  sun  had  already  sunk.  It  was  late  for  her  to  walk  to  Pad- 
diford  and  go  to  Mr.  Try  an' s,  where  she  had  never  called  be- 
fore ;  but  there  was  no  other  way  of  seeing  him  that  evening, 
and  she  could  not  hesitate  about  it.  She  walked  toward  a 
footpath  through  the  fields,  which  would  take  her  to  Paddi- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  361 

ford  without  obliging  her  to  go  through  the  town.  The  way 
was  rather  long,  but  she  preferred  it,  because  it  left  less  prob- 
ability of  her  meeting  acquaintances,  and  she  shrank  from 
having  to  speak  to  any  one. 

The  evening  red  had  nearly  faded  by  the  time  Janet 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Wagstaff  s  door.  The  good  woman  looked 
surprised  to  see  her  at  that  hour;  but  Janet's  mourning  weeds 
and  the  painful  agitation  of  her  face  quickly  brought  the 
second  thought,  that  some  urgent  trouble  had  sent  her  there. 

"  Mr.  Tryan's  just  come  in,"  she  said.  "  If  you'll  step  into 
the  parlor,  I'll  go  up  and  tell  him  you're  here.  He  seemed 
very  tired  and  poorly." 

At  another  time  Janet  would  have  felt  distress  at  the  idea 
that  she  was  disturbing  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  required  rest;  but 
now  her  need  was  too  great  for  that :  she  could  feel  nothing 
but  a  sense  of  coming  relief,  when  she  heard  his  step  on  the 
stair  and  saw  him  enter  the  room. 

He  went  toward  her  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  and  said,  "  I 
fear  something  is  the  matter.  I  fear  you  are  in  trouble." 

Then  poor  Janet  poured  forth  her  sad  tale  of  temptation  and 
despondency;  and  even  while  she  was  confessing  she  felt  half 
her  burthen  removed.  The  act  of  confiding  in  human  sym- 
pathy, the  consciousness  that  a  fellow-being  was  listening  to 
her  with  patient  pity,  prepared  her  soul  for  that  stronger  leap 
by  which  faith  grasps  the  idea  of  the  Divine  sympathy. 
When  Mr.  Tryan  spoke  words  of  consolation  and  encourage- 
ment, she  could  now  believe  the  message  of  mercy ;  the  water- 
floods  that  had  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  rolled  back  again, 
and  life  once  more  spread  its  heaven-covered  space  before  her. 
She  had  been  unable  to  pray  alone ;  but  now  his  prayer  bore 
her  own  soul  along  with  it,  as  the  broad  tongue  of  flame  car- 
ries upward  in  its  vigorous  leap  the  little  flickering  fire  that 
could  hardly  keep  alight  by  itself. 

But  Mr.  Tryan  was  anxious  that  Janet  should  not  linger  out 
at  this  late  hour.  When  he  saw  that  she  was  calmed,  he  said : 
"I  will  walk  home  with  you  now;  we  can  talk  on  the  way." 
But  Janet' s  mind  was  now  sufficiently  at  liberty  for  her  to 
notice  the  signs  of  feverish  weariness  in  his  appearance,  and 
she  would  not  hear  of  causing  him  any  further  fatigue. 


362  SCENES   OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

"  No,  no, "  she  said,  earnestly,  "  you  will  pain  me  very  much 
— indeed  you  will,  by  going  out  again  to-night  on  my  account. 
There  is  no  real  reason  why  I  should  not  go  alone."  And 
when  he  persisted,  fearing  that  for  her  to  be  seen  out  so  late 
alone  might  excite  remark,  she  said  imploringly,  with  a  half 
sob  in  her  voice :  "  What  should  I — what  would  others  like 
me  do,  if  you  went  from  us?  Why  will  you  not  think  more 
of  that,  and  take  care  of  yourself?  " 

He  had  often  had  that  appeal  made  to  him  before,  but  to-night 
— from  Janet's  lips — it  seemed  to  have  a  new  force  for  him,  and 
he  gave  way.  At  first,  indeed,  he  only  did  so  on  condition 
that  she  would  let  Mrs.  Wagstaff  go  with  her;  but  Janet  had 
determined  to  walk  home  alone.  She  preferred  solitude;  she 
wished  not  to  have  her  present  feelings  distracted  by  any  con- 
versation. 

So  she  went  out  into  the  dewy  starlight ;  and  as  Mr.  Tryan 
turned  away  from  her,  he  felt  a  stronger  wish  than  ever  that 
his  fragile  life  might  last  out  for  him  to  see  Janet's  restoration 
thoroughly  established — to  see  her  no  longer  fleeing,  strug- 
gling, clinging  up  the  steep  sides  of  a  precipice  whence  she 
might  be  any  moment  hurled  back  into  the  depths  of  de- 
spair, but  walking  firmly  on  the  level  ground  of  habit.  He 
inwardly  resolved  that  nothing  but  a  peremptory  duty  should 
ever  take  him  from  Milby — that  he  would  not  cease  to  watch 
over  her  until  life  forsook  him. 

Janet  walked  on  quickly  till  she  turned  into  the  fields; 
then  she  slackened  her  pace  a  little,  enjoying  the  sense  of 
solitude  which  a  few  hours  before  had  been  intolerable  to  her. 
The  Divine  Presence  did  not  now  seem  far  off,  where  she  had 
not  wings  to  reach  it;  prayer  itself  seemed  superfluous  in  those 
moments  of  calm  trust.  The  temptation  which  had  so  lately 
made  her  shudder  before  the  possibilities  of  the  future,  was 
now  a  source  of  confidence;  for  had  she  not  been  delivered 
from  it?  Had  not  rescue  come  in  the  extremity  of  danger? 
Yes ;  Infinite  Love  was  caring  for  her.  She  felt  like  a  little 
child  whose  hand  is  firmly  grasped  by  its  father,  as  its  frail 
limbs  make  their  way  over  the  rough  ground;  if  it  should 
stumble,  the  father  will  not  let  it  go. 

That  walk  in  the  dewy  starlight  remained  forever  in  Janet's 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  363 

memory  as  one  of  those  baptismal  epochs,  when  the  soul, 
dipped  in  the  sacred  waters  of  joy  and  peace,  rises  from  them 
with  new  energies,  with  more  unalterable  longings. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Mrs.  Pettifer  there,  anx- 
ious for  her  return.  After  thanking  her  for  corning,  Janet 
only  said,  "I  have  been  to  Mr.  Try an' s;  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  him  " ;  and  then  remembering  how  she  had  left  the  bureau 
and  papers,  she  went  into  the  back  room,  where,  apparently, 
no  one  had  been  since  she  quitted  it;  for  there  lay  the  frag- 
ments of  glass,  and  the  room  was  still  full  of  the  hateful  odor. 
How  feeble  and  miserable  the  temptation  seemed  to  her  at 
this  moment !  She  rang  for  Kitty  to  come  and  pick  up  the 
fragments  and  rub  the  floor,  while  she  herself  replaced  the 
papers  and  locked  up  the  bureau. 

The  next  morning  when  seated  at  breakfast  with  Mrs.  Pet- 
tifer, Janet  said — 

"  What  a  dreary,  unhealthy-looking  place  that  is  where  Mr. 
Try  an  lives!  I'm  sure  it  must  be  very  bad  for  him  to  live 
there.  Do  you  know,  all  this  morning,  since  I've  been  awake, 
I've  been  turning  over  a  little  plan  in  my  mind.  I  think  it  a 
charming  one — all  the  more,  because  you  are  concerned  in  it." 

"  Why,  what  can  that  be?" 

"  You  know  that  house  on  the  Redhill  road  they  call  Holly 
Mount;  it  is  shut  up  now.  That  is  Robert's  house;  at  least, 
it  is  mine  now,  and  it  stands  on  one  of  the  healthiest  spots 
about  here.  Now,  I've  been  settling  in  my  own  mind,  that  if 
a  dear  good  woman  of  my  acquaintance,  who  knows  how  to 
make  a  home  as  comfortable  and  cosey  as  a  bird's  nest,  were 
to  take  up  her  abode  there,  and  have  Mr.  Tryan  as  a  lodger, 
she  would  be  doing  one  of  the  most  useful  deeds  in  all  her  use- 
ful life." 

"  You've  such  a  way  of  wrapping  up  things  in  pretty  words. 
You  must  speak  plainer." 

"  In  plain  words,  then,  I  should  like  to  settle  you  at  Holly 
Mount.  You  would  not  have  to  pay  any  more  rent  than  where 
you  are,  and  it  would  be  twenty  times  pleasanter  for  you  than 
living  up  that  passage  where  you  see  nothing  but  a  brick  wall. 
And  then,  as  it  is  not  far  from  Paddiford,  I  think  Mr.  Tryan 
might  be  persuaded  to  lodge  with  you,  instead  of  in  that  musty 


364  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

house,  among  dead  cabbages  and  smoky  cottages.  I  know  you 
would  like  to  have  hiru  live  with  you,  and  you  would  be  such 
a  mother  to  him." 

"  To  be  sure  I  should  like  it ;  it  would  be  the  finest  thing  in 
the  world  for  me.  But  there'll  be  furniture  wanted.  My  lit- 
tle bit  of  furniture  won't  fill  that  house." 

"  Oh,  I  can  put  some  in  out  of  this  house ;  it  is  too  full ;  and 
we  can  buy  the  rest.  They  tell  me  I'm  to  have  more  money 
than  I  shall  know  what  to  do  with. " 

"I'm  almost  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  doubtfully,  "Mr. 
Try  an  will  hardly  be  persuaded.  He's  been  talked  to  so  much 
about  leaving  that  place;  and  he  always  said  he  must  stay 
there — he  must  be  among  the  people,  and  there  was  no  other 
place  for  him  in  Paddiford.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see 
him  getting  thinner  and  thinner,  and  I've  noticed  him  quite 
short  o'  breath  sometimes.  Mrs.  Linnet  will  have  it,  Mrs. 
Wagstaff  half  poisons  him  with  bad  cooking.  I  don't  know 
about  that,  but  he  can't  have  many  comforts.  I  expect  he'll 
break  down  all  of  a  sudden  some  day,  and  never  be  able  to 
preach  any  more." 

"  Well,  I  shall  try  my  skill  with  him  by  and  by.  I  shall  be 
very  cunning,  and  say  nothing  to  him  till  all  is  ready.  You 
and  I  and  mother,  when  she  comes  home,  will  set  to  work  di- 
rectly and  get  the  house  in  order,  and  then  we'll  get  you  snugly 
settled  in  it.  I  shall  see  Mr.  Pittman  to-day,  and  I  will  tell 
him  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  shall  say  I  wish  to  have  you  for  a 
tenant.  Everybody  knows  I'm  very  fond  of  that  naughty  per- 
son, Mrs.  Pettifer;  so  it  will  seem  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world.  And  then  I  shall  by  and  by  point  out  to  Mr.  Tryan 
that  he  will  be  doing  you  a  service  as  well  as  himself  by  taking 
up  his  abode  with  you.  I  think  I  can  prevail  upon  him ;  for 
last  night,  when  he  was  quite  bent  on  coming  out  into  the  night 
air,  I  persuaded  him  to  give  it  up. " 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  you  may,  my  dear.  I  don't  desire  any- 
thing better  than  to  do  something  toward  prolonging  Mr. 
Tryan's  life,  for  I've  sad  fears  about  him." 

"  Don't  speak  of  them — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  them.  We 
will  only  think  about  getting  the  house  ready.  We  shall  be 
as  busy  as  bees.  How  we  shall  want  mother's  clever  fingers! 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  365 

I  know  the  room  upstairs  that  will  just  do  for  Mr.  Tryan's 
study.  There  shall  be  no  seats  in  it  except  a  very  easy  chair 
and  a  very  easy  sofa,  so  that  he  shall  be  obliged  to  rest  him- 
self when  he  comes  home." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THAT  was  the  last  terrible  crisis  of  temptation  Janet  had  to 
pass  through.  The  good-will  of  her  neighbors,  the  helpful 
sympathy  of  the  friends  who  shared  her  religious  feelings, 
the  occupations  suggested  to  her  by  Mr.  Tryan,  concurred, 
with  her  strong  spontaneous  impulses  toward  works  of  love 
and  mercy,  to  fill  up  her  days  with  quiet  social  intercourse 
and  charitable  exertion.  Besides,  her  constitution,  naturally 
healthy  and  strong,  was  every  Aveek  tending,  with  gathering 
force  of  habit,  to  recover  its  equipoise,  and  set  her  free  from 
those  physical  solicitations  which  the  smallest  habitual  vice 
always  leaves  behind  it.  The  prisoner  feels  where  the  iron 
has  galled  him,  long  after  his  fetters  have  been  loosed. 

There  were  always  neighborly  visits  to  be  paid  and  received ; 
and  as  the  months  wore  on,  increasing  familiarity  with  Janet's 
present  self  began  to  efface,  even  from  minds  as  rigid  as  Mrs. 
Phipps's,  the  unpleasant  impressions  that  had  been  left  by 
recent  years.  Janet  was  recovering  the  popularity  which  her 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  nature  had  won  for  her  when  she  was 
a  girl ;  and  popularity,  as  every  one  knows,  is  the  most  com- 
plex and  self-multiplying  of  echoes.  Even  anti-Tryanite 
prejudice  could  not  resist  the  fact  that  Janet  Dempster  was  a 
changed  woman — changed  as  the  dusty,  bruised,  and  sun- 
withered  plant  is  changed  when  the  soft  rains  of  heaven  have 
fallen  on  it — and  that  this  change  was  due  to  Mr.  Tryan's 
influence.  The  last  lingering  sneers  against  the  Evangelical 
curate  began  to  die  out;  and  though  much  of  the  feeling  that 
had  prompted  them  remained  behind,  there  was  an  intimi- 
dating consciousness  that  the  expression  of  such  feeling  would 
not  be  effective — jokes  of  that  sort  had  ceased  to  tickle  the 
Milby  mind.  Even  Mr.  Budd  and  Mr.  Tomlinson,  when  they 


366  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

saw  Mr.  Tryan  passing  pale  and  worn  along  the  street,  had  a 
secret  sense  that  this  man  was  somehow  not  that  very  natural 
and  comprehensible  thing,  a  humbug — that,  in  fact,  it  was 
impossible  to  explain  him  from  the  stomach-and-pocket  point 
of  view.  Twist  and  stretch  their  theory  as  they  might,  it 
would  not  fit  Mr.  Tryan;  and  so,  with  that  remarkable  re- 
semblance as  to  mental  processes  which  may  frequently  be  ob- 
served to  exist  between  plain  men  and  philosophers,  they  con- 
cluded that  the  less  they  said  about  him  the  better. 

Among  all  Janet's  neighborly  pleasures,  there  was  nothing 
she  liked  better  than  to  take  an  early  tea  at  the  White  House, 
and  to  stroll  with  Mr.  Jerome  round  the  old-fashioned  gar- 
den and  orchard.  There  was  endless  matter  for  talk  between 
her  and  the  good  old  man,  for  Janet  had  that  genuine  delight 
in, human  fellowship  which  gives  an  interest  to  all  personal 
details  that  come  warm  from  truthful  lips ;  and,  besides,  they 
had  a  common  interest  in  good-natured  plans  for  helping  their 
poorer  neighbors.  One  great  object  of  Mr.  Jerome's  charities 
was,  as  he  often  said,  "  to  keep  industrious  men  an'  women  off 
the  parish.  I'd  rether  give  ten  shillin'  an'  help  a  man  to 
stan'  on  his  own  legs,  nor  pay  half-a-crown  to  buy  him  a 
parish  crutch;  it's  the  ruination  on  him  if  he  once  goes  to  the 
parish.  I've  see'd  many  a  time,  if  you  help  a  man  wi'  a 
present  in  a  neeborly  way,  it  sweetens  his  blood — he  thinks  it 
kind  on  you;  but  the  parish  shillin' s  turn  it  sour — he  niver 
thinks  'em  enough."  In  illustration  of  this  opinion  Mr. 
Jerome  had  a  large  store  of  details  about  such  persons  as  Jim 
Hardy,  the  coal-carrier,  "as  lost  his  hoss,"  and  Sally  Butts, 
"as  hedto  sell  her  mangle,  though  she  was  as  decent  a  woman 
as  need  to  be  " ;  to  the  hearing  of  which  details  Janet  seriously 
inclined ;  and  you  would  hardly  desire  to  see  a  prettier  picture 
than  the  kind-faced,  white-haired  old  man  telling  these  frag- 
ments of  his  simple  experience  as  he  walked,  with  shoulders 
slightly  bent,  among  the  moss-roses  and  espalier  apple-trees, 
while  Janet  in  her  widow's  cap,  her  dark  eyes  bright  with 
interest,  went  listening  by  his  side,  and  little  Lizzie,  with  her 
nankin  bonnet  hanging  down  her  back,  toddled  on  before  them. 
Mrs.  Jerome  usually  declined  these  lingering  strolls,  and  often 
observed,  "  I  niver  see  the  like  to  Mr.  Jerome  when  he' s  got 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  367 

Mrs.  Dempster  to  talk  to ;  it  sinnifies  uothin'  to  him  whether 
we've  tea  at  four  or  at  five  o'clock;  he'd  go  on  till  six,  if 
you'd  let  him  alone — he's  like  off  his  head."  However,  Mrs. 
Jerome  herself  could  not  deny  that  Janet  was  a  very  pretty- 
spoken  woman :  "  She  al'ys  says,  she  niver  gets  sich  pikelets 
as  mine  nowhere ;  I  know  that  very  well — other  folks  buy  'em 
at  shops — thick,  unwholesome  things,  you  might  as  well  eat  a 
sponge. " 

The  sight  of  little  Lizzie  often  stirred  in  Janet's  mind  a 
sense  of  the  childlessness  which  had  made  a  fatal  blank  in  her 
life.  She  had  fleeting  thoughts  that  perhaps  among  her  hus- 
band's distant  relatives  there  might  be  some  children  whom 
she  could  help  to  bring  up,  some  little  girl  whom  she  might 
adopt;  and  she  promised  herself  one  day  or  other  to  hunt  out 
a  second  cousin  of  his — a  married  woman,  of  whom  he  had 
lost  sight  for  many  years. 

P>ut  at  present  her  hands  and  heart  were  too  full  for  her  to 
carry  out  that  scheme.  To  her  great  disappointment,  her 
project  of  settling  Mrs.  Pettifer  at  Holly  Mount  had  been  de- 
layed by  the  discovery  that  some  repairs  were  necessary  in 
order  to  make  the  house  habitable,  aud  it  was  not  till  Septem- 
ber had  set  in  that  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  old 
friend  comfortably  installed,  and  the  rooms  destined  for  Mr. 
Try  an  looking  pretty  and  cosey  to  her  heart's  content.  She 
had  taken  several  of  his  chief  friends  into  her  confidence,  and 
they  were  warmly  wishing  success  to  her  plan  for  inducing 
him  to  quit  poor  Mrs.  Wagstaff's  dingy  house  and  dubious 
cookery.  That  he  should  consent  to  some  such  change  was 
becoming  more  and  more  a  matter  of  anxiety  to  his  hearers ; 
for  though  no  more  decided  symptoms  were  yet  observable  in 
him  than  increasing  emaciation,  a  dry  hacking  cough,  and  an 
occasional  shortness  of  breath,  it  was  felt  that  the  fulfilment 
of  Mr.  Pratt' s  prediction  could  not  long  be  deferred,  and  that 
this  obstinate  persistence  in  labor  aud  self-disregard  must 
soon  be  peremptorily  cut  short  by  a  total  failure  of  strength. 
Any  hopes  that  the  influence  of  Mr.  Tryan's  father  and  sister 
would  prevail  on  him  to  change  his  mode  of  life— that  they 
would  perhaps  come  to  live  with  him,  or  that  his  sister  at 
least  might  come  to  see  him,  and  that  the  arguments  which 


368  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

had  failed  from  other  lips  might  be  more  persuasive  from  hers 
— were  now  quite  dissipated.  His  father  had  lately  had  an 
attack  of  paralysis,  and  could  not  spare  his  only  daughter's 
tendance.  On  Mr.  Try  an' s  return  from  a  visit  to  his  father, 
Miss  Linnet  was  very  anxious  to  know  whether  his  sister  had 
not  urged  him  to  try  change  of  air.  From  his  answers  she 
gathered  that  Miss  Tryan  wished  him  to  give  up  his  curacy 
and  travel,  or  at  least  go  to  the  south  Devonshire  coast. 

"And  why  will  you  not  do  so?"  Miss  Linnet  said;  "you 
might  come  back  to  us  well  and  strong,  and  have  many  years 
of  usefulness  before  you." 

"No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "I  think  people  attach  more 
importance  to  such  measures  than  is  warranted.  I  don't  see 
any  good  end  that  is  to  be  served  by  going  to  die  at  Nice,  in- 
stead of  dying  amongst  one's  friends  and  one's  work.  I  can- 
not leave  Milby — at  least  I  will  not  leave  it  voluntarily. " 

But  though  he  remained  immovable  on  this  point,  he  had 
been  compelled  to  give  up  his  afternoon  service  on  the  Sun- 
day, and  to  accept  Mr.  Parry's  offer  of  aid  in  the  evening  ser- 
vice, as  well  as  to  curtail  his  week-day  labors;  and  he  had 
even  written  to  Mr.  Prendergast  to  request  that  he  would  ap- 
point another  curate  to  the  Paddiford  district,  on  the  under- 
standing that  the  new  curate  should  receive  the  salary,  but 
that  Mr.  Tryan  should  co-operate  with  him  as  long  as  he 
was  able.  The  hopefulness  which  is  an  almost  constant  at- 
tendant on  consumption  had  not  the  effect  of  deceiving  him 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  malady,  or  of  making  him  look  forward 
to  ultimate  recovery.  He  believed  himself  to  be  consump- 
tive, and  he  had  not  yet  felt  any  desire  to  escape  the  early 
death  which  he  had  for  some  time  contemplated  as  probable. 
Even  diseased  hopes  will  take  their  direction  from  the  strong 
habitual  bias  of  the  mind,  and  to  Mr.  Tryan  death  had  for 
years  seemed  nothing  else  than  the  laying  down  of  a  burthen, 
under  which  he  sometimes  felt  himself  fainting.  He  was  only 
sanguine  about  his  powers  of  work:  he  flattered  himself  that 
what  he  was  unable  to  do  one  week  he  should  be  equal  to  the 
next,  and  he  would  not  admit  that  in  desisting  from  any  part 
of  his  labor,  he  was  renouncing  it  permanently.  He  had 
lately  delighted  Mr.  Jerome  by  accepting  his  long-proffered 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  369 

loan  of  the  "  little  chacenut  horse  " ;  and  he  found  so  much 
benefit  from  substituting  constant  riding  exercise  for  walking, 
that  he  began  to  think  he  should  soon  be  able  to  resume  some 
of  the  work  he  had  dropped. 

That  was  a  happy  afternoon  for  Janet,  when,  after  exerting 
herself  busily  for  a  week  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer, 
she  saw  Holly  Mount  looking  orderly  and  comfortable  from 
attic  to  cellar.  It  was  an  old  red-brick  house,  with  two  gables 
in  front,  and  two  clipped  holly-trees  flanking  the  garden-gate ; 
a  simple,  homely-looking  place,  that  quiet  people  might  easily 
get  fond  of ;  and  now  it  was  scoured  and  polished  and  carpeted 
and  furnished  so  as  to  look  really  snug  within.  When  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done,  Janet  delighted  herself  with  con- 
templating Mr.  Try  an' s  study,  first  sitting  down  in  the  easy- 
chair,  and  then  lying  for  a  moment  on  the  sofa,  that  she 
might  have  a  keener  sense  of  the  repose  he  would  get  from 
those  well-stuffed  articles  of  furniture,  which  she  had  gone  to 
Kotherby  on  purpose  to  choose. 

"Now,  mother,"  she  said,  when  she  had  finished  her  sur- 
vey, "you  have  done  your  work  as  well  as  any  fairy -mother 
or  godmother  that  ever  turned  a  pumpkin  into  a  coach  and 
horses.  You  stay  and  have  tea  cosily  with  Mrs.  Pettifer 
while  I  go  to  Mrs.  Linnet's.  I  want  to  tell  Mary  and  Rebecca 
the  good  news,  that  I've  got  the  exciseman  to  promise  that 
he  will  take  Mrs.  Wagstaff's  lodgings  when  Mr.  Tryan  leaves. 
They'll  be  so  pleased  to  hear  it,  because  they  thought  he 
would  make  her  poverty  an  objection  to  his  leaving  her." 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Raynor,  whose  face,  al- 
ways calm,  was  now  a  happy  one,  "  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us 
first.  You'll  perhaps  miss  Mrs.  Linnet's  tea-time." 

"  No,  I  feel  too  excited  to  take  tea  yet.  I'm  like  a  child 
with  a  new  baby -house.  Walking  in  the  air  will  do  me  good." 

So  she  set  out.  Holly  Mount  was  about  a  mile  from  that 
outskirt  of  Paddiford  Common  where  Mrs.  Linnet's  house 
stood  nestled  among  its  laburnums,  lilacs,  and  syringas. 
Janet's  way  thither  lay  for  a  little  while  along  the  high-road, 
and  then  led  her  into  a  deep-rutted  lane,  which  wound  through 
a  flat  tract  of  meadow  and  pasture,  while  in  front  lay  smoky 
Paddiford,  and  away  to  the  left  the  mother-town  of  Milby. 


370  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

There  was  no  Hue  of  silvery  willows  marking  the  course  of  a 
stream — no  group  of  Scotch  firs  with  their  trunks  reddening 
in  the  level  sunbeams — nothing  to  break  the  flowerless  mo- 
notony of  grass  and  hedgerow  but  an  occasional  oak  or  elm, 
and  a  few  cows  sprinkled  here  and  there.  A  very  common- 
place scene,  indeed.  But  what  scene  was  ever  commonplace 
in  the  descending  sunlight,  when  color  has  awakened  from  its 
noonday  sleep,  and  the  long  shadows  awe  us  like  a  disclosed 
presence?  Above  all,  what  scene  is  commonplace  to  the  eye 
that  is  filled  with  serene  gladness,  and  brightens  all  things 
with  its  own  joy? 

And  Janet  just  now  was  very  happy.  As  she  walked  along 
the  rough  lane  with  a  buoyant  step,  a  half -smile  of  innocent, 
kindly  triumph  played  about  her  mouth.  She  was  delighting 
beforehand  in  the  anticipated  success  of  her  persuasive  power, 
and  for  the  time  her  painful  anxiety  about  Mr.  Try  art's  health 
was  thrown  into  abeyance.  But  she  had  not  gone  far  along 
the  lane  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse  advancing  at  a 
walking  pace  behind  her.  Without  looking  back,  she  turned 
aside  to  make  way  for  it  between  the  ruts,  and  did  not  notice 
that  for  a  moment  it  had  stopped,  and  had  then  come  on  with 
a  slightly  quickened  pace.  In  less  than  a  minute  she  heard  a 
well-known  voice  say,  "Mrs.  Dempster";  and,  turning,  saw 
Mr.  Tryan  close  to  her,  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle.  It 
seemed  very  natural  to  her  that  he  should  be  there.  Her 
mind  was  so  full  of  his  presence  at  that  moment,  that  the 
actual  sight  of  him  was  only  like  a  more  vivid  thought,  and 
she  behaved,  as  we  are  apt  to  do  when  feeling  obliges  us  to  be 
genuine,  with  a  total  forgetfulness  of  polite  forms.  She  only 
looked  at  him  with  a  slight  deepening  of  the  smile  that  was 
already  on  her  face.  He  said  gently,  "  Take  my  arm  " ;  and 
they  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 

It  was  he  that  broke  it.  "  You  are  going  to  Paddiford,  I 
suppose?" 

The  question  recalled  Janet  to  the  consciousness  that  this 
was  an  unexpected  opportunity  for  beginning  her  work  of  per- 
suasion, and  that  she  was  stupidly  neglecting  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  was  going  to  Mrs.  Linnet's.  I  knew 
Mrs.  Linnet  would  like  to  hear  that  our  friend  Mrs.  Pet- 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  371 

tifer  is  quite  settled  now  in  her  new  house.  She  is  as  fond  of 
Mrs.  Pettifer  as  I  arn — almost;  I  won't  admit  that  any  one 
loves  her  quite  as  well,  for  no  one  else  has  such  good  reason 
as  I  have.  But  now  the  dear  woman  wants  a  lodger,  for  you 
know  she  can't  afford  to  live  in  so  large  a  house  by  herself. 
But  I  knew  when  I  persuaded  her  to  go  there  that  she  would 
be  sure  to  get  one — she's  such  a  comfortable  creature  to  live 
with ;  and  I  didn't  like  her  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  her  days 
up  that  dull  passage,  being  at  every  one's  beck  and  call  who 
wanted  to  make  use  of  her." 

"  Yes, "  said  Mr.  Tryan,  "  I  quite  understand  your  feeling ; 
I  don't  wonder  at  your  strong  regard  for  her." 

"  Well,  but  now  I  want  her  other  friends  to  second  me. 
There  she  is,  with  three  rooms  to  let,  ready  furnished,  every- 
thing in  order;  and  I  know  some  one,  who  thinks  as  well  of 
her  as  I  do,  and  who  would  be  doing  good  all  round — to  every 
one  that  knows  him,  as  well  as  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  he  would 
go  to  live  with  her.  He  would  leave  some  uncomfortable 
lodgings,  which  another  person  is  already  coveting  and  would 
take  immediately ;  and  he  would  go  to  breathe  pure  air  at 
Holly  Mount,  and  gladden  Mrs.  Pettifer's  heart  by  letting  her 
wait  on  him ;  and  comfort  all  his  friends,  who  are  quite  mis- 
erable about  him." 

Mr.  Tryan  saw  it  all  in  a  moment — he  saw  that  it  had  all 
been  done  for  his  sake.  He  could  not  be  sorry ;  he  could  not 
say  no ;  he  could  not  resist  the  sense  that  life  had  a  new 
sweetness  for  him,  and  that  he  should  like  it  to  be  prolonged 
a  little — only  -a  little,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  a  stronger  secu- 
rity about  Janet.  When  she  had  finished  speaking,  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  doubtful,  inquiring  glance.  He  was  not  look- 
ing at  her ;  his  eyes  were  cast  downward ;  but  the  expression 
of  his  face  encouraged  her,  and  she  said,  in  a  half -playful  tone 
of  entreaty — 

"You  will  go  and  live  with  her?  I  know  you  will.  You 
will  come  back  with  me  now  and  see  the  house." 

He  looked  at  her  then,  and  smiled.  There  is  an  unspeak- 
able blending  of  sadness  and  sweetness  in  the  smile  of  a  face 
sharpened  and  paled  by  slow  consumption.  That  smile  of 
Mr.  Tryan's  pierced  poor  Janet's  heart:  she  felt  in  it  at  once 


372  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

the  assurance  of  grateful  affection  and  the  prophecy  of  coming 
death.  Her  tears  rose ;  they  turned  round  without  speaking, 
and  went  back  again  along  the  lane. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IN  less  than  a  week  Mr.  Tryan  was  settled  at  Holly  Mount, 
and  there  was  not  one  of  his  many  attached  hearers  who  did 
not  sincerely  rejoice  at  the  event. 

The  autumn  that  year  was  bright  and  warm,  and  at  the  be- 
ginning of  October,  Mr.  Walsh,  the  new  curate,  came.  The 
mild  weather,  the  relaxation  from  excessive  work,  and  per- 
haps another  benignant  influence,  had  for  a  few  weeks  a  visi- 
bly favorable  effect  on  Mr.  Tryan.  At  least  he  began  to  feel 
new  hopes,  which  sometimes  took  the  guise  of  new  strength. 
He  thought  of  the  cases  in  which  consumptive  patients  remain 
nearly  stationary  for  years,  without  suffering  so  as  to  make 
their  life  burthensome  to  themselves  or  to  others ;  and  he  be- 
gan to  struggle  with  a  longing  that  it  might  be  so  with  him. 
He  struggled  with  it,  because  he  felt  it  to  be  an  indication 
that  earthly  affection  was  beginning  to  have  too  strong  a  hold 
on  him,  and  he  prayed  earnestly  for  more  perfect  submission, 
and  for  a  more  absorbing  delight  in  the  Divine  Presence  as  the 
chief  good.  He  was  conscious  that  he  did  not  wish  for  pro- 
longed life  solely  that  he  might  reclaim  the  wanderers  and 
sustain  the  feeble :  he  was  conscious  of  a  new  yearning  for 
those  pure  human  joys  which  he  had  voluntarily  and  deter- 
minedly banished  from  his  life — for  a  draught  of  that  deep 
affection  from  which  he  had  been  cut  off  by  a  dark  chasm  of 
remorse.  For  now,  that  affection  was  within  his  reach;  he 
saw  it  there,  like  a  palm-shadowed  well  in  the  desert;  he 
could  not  desire  to  die  in  sight  of  it. 

And  so  the  autumn  rolled  gently  by  in  its  "calm  decay." 
Until  November,  Mr.  Tryan  continued  to  preach  occasionally, 
to  ride  about  visiting  his  flock,  and  to  look  in  at  his  schools ; 
but  his  growing  satisfaction  in  Mr.  Walsh  as  his  successor 
saved  him  from  too  eager  exertion  and  from  worrying  anxiety. 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  373 

Janet  was  with  him  a  great  deal  now,  for  she  saw  that  he  liked 
her  to  read  to  him  in  the  lengthening  evenings,  and  it  became 
the  rule  for  her  and  her  mother  to  have  tea  at  Holly  Mount, 
where,  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  sometimes  another  friend  or 
two,  they  brought  Mr.  Tryan  the  unaccustomed  enjoyment  of 
companionship  by  his  own  fireside. 

Janet  did  not  share  his  new  hopes,  for  she  was  not  only  in 
the  habit  of  hearing  Mr.  Pratt' s  opinion  that  Mr.  Tryan  could 
hardly  stand  out  through  the  winter,  but  she  also  knew  that 
it  was  shared  by  Dr.  Madely  of  Kotherby,  whom,  at  her  re- 
quest, he  had  consented  to  call  in.  It  was  not  necessary  or 
desirable  to  tell  Mr.  Tryan  what  was  revealed  by  the  stetho- 
scope, but  Janet  knew  the  worst. 

She  felt  no  rebellion  under  this  prospect  of  bereavement, 
but  rather  a  quiet  submissive  sorrow.  Gratitude  that  his 
influence  and  guidance  had  been  given  her,  even  if  only  for  a 
little  while — gratitude  that  she  was  permitted  to  be  with  him, 
to  take  a  deeper  and  deeper  impress  from  daily  communion 
with  him,  to  be  something  to  him  in  these  last  months  of 
his  life,  was  so  strong  in  her  that  it  almost  silenced  regret. 
Janet  had  lived  through  the  great  tragedy  of  woman's  life. 
Her  keenest  personal  emotions  had  been  poured  forth  in  her 
early  love — her  wounded  affection  with  its  years  of  anguish — 
her  agony  of  unavailing  pity  over  that  death-bed  seven  months 
ago.  The  thought  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  associated  for  her  with 
repose  from  that  conflict  of  emotion,  with  trust  in  the  un- 
changeable, with  the  influx  of  a  power  to  subdue  self.  To 
have  been  assured  of  his  sympathy,  his  teaching,  his  help,  all 
through  her  life,  would  have  been  to  her  like  a  heaven  already 
begun — a  deliverance  from  fear  and  danger ;  but  the  time  was 
not  yet  come  for  her  to  be  conscious  that  the  hold  he  had  on 
her  heart  was  any  other  than  that  of  the  heaven-sent  friend 
who  had  come  to  her  like  the  angel  in  the  prison,  and  loosed 
her  bonds,  and  led  her  by  the  hand  till  she  could  look  back  on 
the  dreadful  doors  that  had  once  closed  her  in. 

Before  November  was  over  Mr.  Tryan  had  ceased  to  go  out. 
A  new  crisis  had  come  on :  the  cough  had  changed  its  char- 
acter, and  the  worst  symptoms  developed  themselves  so  rapid- 
ly that  Mr.  Pratt  began  to  think  the  end  would  arrive  sooner 


374  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

than  he  had  expected.  Janet  became  a  constant  attendant  on 
him  now,  and  no  one  could  feel  that  she  was  performing  any- 
thing but  a  sacred  office.  She  made  Holly  Mount  her  home, 
and,  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  to  help  her,  she  filled 
the  painful  days  and  nights  with  every  soothing  influence  that 
care  and  tenderness  could  devise.  There  were  many  visitors  to 
the  sick-room,  led  thither  by  venerating  affection ;  and  there 
could  hardly  be  one  who  did  not  retain  in  after-years  a  vivid 
remembrance  of  the  scene  there — of  the  pale  wasted  form  in 
the  easy-chair  (for  he  sat  up  to  the  last),  of  the  gray  eyes  so 
full  even  yet  of  inquiring  kindness,  as  the  thin,  almost  trans- 
parent hand  was  held  out  to  give  the  pressure  of  welcome; 
and  of  the  sweet  woman,  too,  whose  dark  watchful  eyes  de- 
tected every  want,  and  who  supplied  the  want  with  a  ready 
hand. 

There  were  others  who  would  have  had  the  heart  and  the 
skill  to  fill  this  place  by  Mr.  Tryan's  side,  and  who  would 
have  accepted  it  as  an  honor ;  but  they  could  not  help  feeling 
that  God  had  given  it  to  Janet  by  a  train  of  events  which 
were  too  impressive  not  to  shame  all  jealousies  into  silence. 

That  sad  history  which  most  of  us  know  too  well,  lasted 
more  than  three  months.  He  was  too  feeble  and  suffering  for 
the  last  few  weeks  to  see  any  visitors,  but  he  still  sat  up 
through  the  day.  The  strange  hallucinations  of  the  disease 
which  had  seemed  to  take  a  more  decided  hold  on  him  just  at 
the  fatal  crisis,  and  had  made  him  think  he  was  perhaps  get- 
ting better  at  the  very  time  when  death  had  begun  to  hurry  on 
with  more  rapid  movement,  had  now  given  way,  and  left  him 
calmly  conscious  of  the  reality.  One  afternoon  near  the  end 
of  February,  Janet  was  moving  gently  about  the  room,  in  the 
fire-lit  dusk,  arranging  some  things  that  would  be  wanted  in 
the  night.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  and  his  eyes 
followed  her  as  she  moved  with  the  firm  grace  natural  to  her, 
while  the  bright  fire  every  now  and  then  lit  up  her  face,  and 
gave  an  unusual  glow  to  its  dark  beauty.  Even  to  follow  her 
in  this  way  with  his  eyes  was  an  exertion  that  gave  a  painful 
tension  to  his  face ;  while  she  looked  like  an  image  of  life  and 
strength. 

"  Janet/'  he  said  presently,  in  his  faint  voice — he  always 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  375 

called  her  Janet  now.  In  a  moment  she  was  close  to  him, 
bending  over  him.  He  opened  his  hand  a,s  he  looked  up  at 
her,  and  she  placed  hers  within  it. 

"  Janet, "  he  said  again,  "  you  will  have  a  long  while  to  live 
after  I  am  gone." 

A  sudden  pang  of  fear  shot  through  her.  She  thought  he 
felt  himself  dying,  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  at  his  feet, 
holding  his  hand,  while  she  looked  up  at  him,  almost  breath- 
less. 

"  But  you  will  not  feel  the  need  of  me  as  you  have  done. 
.  .  .  You  have  a  sure  trust  in  God.  ...  I  shall  not  look  for 
you  in  vain  at  the  last. " 

"No  ...  no  ...  I  shall  be  there  .  .  .  God  will  not 
forsake  me." 

She  could  hardly  utter  the  words,  though  she  was  not  weep- 
ing. She  was  waiting  with  trembling  eagerness  for  anything 
else  he  might  have  to  say. 

"Let  us  kiss  each  other  before  we  part." 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  his,  and  the  full  life-breathing  lips 
met  the  wasted  dying  ones  in  a  sacred  kiss  of  promise. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

IT  soon  came — the  blessed  day  of  deliverance,  the  sad  day 
of  bereavement ;  and  in  the  second  week  of  March  they  carried 
him  to  the  grave.  He  was  buried  as  he  had  desired :  there 
was  no  hearse,  no  mourning-coach;  his  coffin  was  borne  by 
twelve  of  his  humbler  hearers,  who  relieved  each  other  by 
turns.  But  he  was  followed  by  a  long  procession  of  mourn- 
ing friends,  women  as  well  as  men. 

Slowly,  amid  deep  silence,  the  dark  stream  passed  along 
Orchard  Street,  where  eighteen  months  before  the  Evangelical 
curate  had  been  saluted  with  hootings  and  hisses.  Mr.  Je- 
rome and  Mr.  Landor  were  the  eldest  pall-bearers ;  and  be- 
hind the  coffin,  led  by  Mr.  Tryan's  cousin,  walked  Janet,  in 
quiet  submissive  sorrow.  She  could  not  feel  that  he  was  quite 
gone  from  her  j  the  unseen  world  lay  so  very  near  her — it  held 


376  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

all  that  had  ever  stirred  the  depths  of  anguish  and  joy  within 
her. 

It  was  a  cloudy  morning,  and  had  been  raining  when  they 
left  Holly  Mount;  but  as  they  walked,  the  sun  broke  out,  and 
the  clouds  were  rolling  off  in  large  masses  when  they  entered 
the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Walsh' s  voice  was  heard  saying,  "  I 
am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  The  faces  were  not  hard 
at  this  funeral;  the  burial-service  was  not  a  hollow  form. 
Every  heart  there  was  filled  with  the  memory  of  a  man  who, 
through  a  self-sacrificing  life  and  in  a  painful  death,  had  been 
sustained  by  the  faith  which  fills  that  form  with  breath  and 
substance. 

When  Janet  left  the  grave,  she  did  not  return  to  Holly 
Mount;  she  went  to  her  home  in  Orchard  Street,  where  her 
mother  was  waiting  to  receive  her.  She  said  quite  calmly, 
"  Let  us  walk  round  the  garden,  mother. "  And  they  walked 
round  in  silence,  with  their  hands  clasped  together,  looking  at 
the  golden  crocuses  bright  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Janet  felt 
a  deep  stillness  within.  She  thirsted  for  no  pleasure;  she 
craved  no  worldly  good.  She  saw  the  years  to  come  stretch 
before  her  like  an  autumn  afternoon,  filled  with  resigned 
memory.  Life  to  her  could  never  more  have  any  eagerness ; 
it  was  a  solemn  service  of  gratitude  and  patient  effort.  She 
walked  in  the  presence  of  unseen  witnesses — of  the  Divine 
love  that  had  rescued  her,  of  the  human  love  that  waited  for 
its  eternal  repose  until  it  had  seen  her  endure  to  the  end. 

Janet  is  living  still.  Her  black  hair  is  gray,  and  her  step 
is  no  longer  buoyant ;  but  the  sweetness  of  her  smile  remains, 
the  love  is  not  gone  from  her  eyes ;  and  strangers  sometimes 
ask,  Who  is  that  noble-looking  elderly  woman  that  walks 
about  holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand?  The  little  boy  is  the 
son  of  Janet's  adopted  daughter,  and  Janet  in  her  old  age  has 
children  about  her  knees,  and  loving  young  arms  round  her 
neck. 

There  is  a  simple  gravestone  in  Milby  Churchyard,  telling 
that  in  this  spot  lie  the  remains  of  Edgar  Tryan,  for  two  years 
officiating  curate  at  the  Paddiford  Chapel-of-Ease,  in  this  par- 
ish. It  is  a  meagre  memorial,  and  tells  you  simply  that  the 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  377 

man  who  lies  there  took  upon  him,  faithfully  or  unfaithfully, 
the  office  of  guide  and  instructor  to  his  fellow-men. 

But  there  is  another  memorial  of  Edgar  Tryan,  which  bears 
a  fuller  record :  it  is  Janet  Dempster,  rescued  from  self -de- 
spair, strengthened  with  divine  hopes,  and  now  looking  back 
on  years  of  purity  and  helpful  labor.  The  man  who  has  left 
such  a  memorial  behind  him  must  have  been  one  whose  heart 
beat  with  true  compassion,  and  whose  lips  were  moved  by 
fervent  faith. 


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